The Babysitter's Club
by shooting-stetsons
Summary: A year after Sherlock Holmes took the plunge off of St. Bart's hospital, John Watson gets the call that his cousin Phil Coulson was killed in an alien attack on Manhattan. He goes to sort out Phil's things, and gets far more than he bargained for. Avengers Movie!verse, rating changed at a reader's request for foul language.
1. Chapter 1

Nearly a year after Sherlock jumped off the roof of St. Bart's, John received the news that his cousin in America, Phil Coulson, had been killed in some freak attack, that he was Phil's only surviving relative, and that he was needed to arrange his affairs. How was that even possible? Surely he had had a girlfriend, or siblings, or...something. John couldn't just dash off to America, he hardly had the money to go flying across the ocean at the drop of the hat, even if - oh, Phil's boss had already got him a ticket. A first class ticket. A first class ticket to New York City with an additional letter, requesting that he meet with Phil's employer about his last wishes. Everything would be paid for him.

Well, maybe he needed some time away, after all. John packed everything he would need for two weeks to be on the safe side, including a suit for the funeral, in his old Army duffel within a matter of minutes. Even since moving into Baker Street his entire life was easily condensed to a canvas sack and a garment bag. So easily erased, forgotten, rubbed away like the wrong answer on an exam.

With a hug for Mrs. Hudson and a promise to be safe, he walked to the Tube station and was on his way. He thought it would feel worse to leave the Baker Street flat and all its memories, but really, everything that made Baker Street home to him had been gone for a long time. London felt empty. It should have been impossible, of course, for a single man's death to make any change in the population size, but John supposed it was all a matter of perspective. It was like when Sherlock died, he took the city's very heart and soul with him.

_Divorce from feelings_, an annoying voice reminded him somewhere deep inside. John sighed and looked out the window, failing to ignore the hubbub of fellow passengers boarding the plane. From the corner of his eye he could see a woman dressed in black, with short red hair and a sour expression. Beside her was an anxious-looking man with curly dark hair and a purple button-up shirt. Even after a year the combination was like a punch in the chest, which was absolutely ridiculous, it wasn't as though Sherlock had held the sole rights to wearing purple shirts, but-

"Well, isn't this quite the party?" a wry, American voice asked from the front of the plane. John looked up and saw - _no fucking way_ - world-famous scientist and engineer Tony Stark ambling up the center aisle. He flopped into the seat beside John's and immediately ordered a drink. "You want anything? I'm buying."

Too taken aback by the billionaire's presence, John mutely shook his head, then instantly began berating himself for it. How often had he heard Sherlock sneer the name Tony Stark whenever what appeared to be an interesting murder turned out only to be the victim's hashed attempt at building a robot or a super suit in their basement? Certainly, his inventions had garnered some reluctant respect, but Sherlock had always thought him too messy and uncalculating to be anyone worth outwardly admiring. Still, John had come close to meeting him on his ill-fated visit to Afghanistan; he'd been filling in on Rhodes' team in the "Hum-drum-vee."

Stark shrugged when he declined the drink and muttered, "Whatever, more for me," before taking a generous gulp of whatever fruity concoction the cheery steward brought. They really weren't in much of a first-class aeroplane, it was a small charter jet with only four crew members, and everyone on the place besides John seemed to know each other. The woman and fidgety man bowed their heads close together before leaning over the backs of their seats to speak with the pair behind them, one man with short brown hair and a blond man who was almost too muscular to seem human. With a slight crane of his neck, John caught sight of what looked like an enormous hammer under the second man's seat. How had he got that past security? In the row in front of Stark and John was another beefy blond man in a rather old-fashioned suit and a very unhappy looking black man with an eyepatch glaring around as though the assembled few on the charter were his unruly children.

"Hey, Steve?" wheedled Stark, and John's eyebrows shot up. He didn't mean Steve _Rogers?_

"Tony," replied the other man, not looking up from his newspaper.

"Why isn't Bruce sitting over here? I wanna sit by Bruce."

"Because Director Fury wants to keep the plane in the _air_, Tony."

Once again, John felt his senses jolt, and he couldn't help speaking up. "Sorry, are you talking about Nick Fury?" he blurted. Stark turned to peer at him through his sunglasses, and Rogers actually turned this time. "Only, I got this letter from him about my cousin, and..."

"Oh, so you _do_ speak," interrupted the man with the eyepatch in a booming voice. He stood even taller than Sherlock - _I really need to stop comparing people to him_ - and crossed his arms, glaring down at John with his good eye. "So, you're John Watson. I expected someone a little...more." He made a vaguely disinterested face, rolling his visible eye, and John got the message very clearly.

John fumbled with his seatbelt and stood as well, flushing red when he still had to look up and meet Fury's eye. "I'm not interesting in making an impression on you, Mister Fury, I'm interested in taking care of my cousin's last wishes," he said pointedly, using the same tone as when Sherlock was being a dick to a victim's relative. _We're here to solve a murder, Sherlock, not harass old ladies._ Stark was staring at him with his mouth hanging partially open. Apparently Nick Fury wasn't a man to use That Tone with. Well, pardon his ignorance. "Excuse me," he murmured to Stark, edging past to use the loo.

What the hell was he doing on a charter jet with the bloody _Avengers?_

When he got out of the loo, John asked the steward if he could move to a seat in the back of the jet, not wanting to put up with the awkward glances cast his way by Phil's apparent co-workers. Cripes, what did his cousin do for a living?

"Oh! Um, I'm not sure, let me just go ask Mum, she's the one in charge, but she doesn't really like talking to people, so she's staying in the galley. I'll go check, back in a tick!" the cheerful steward replied, practically skipping toward the front of the plane.

"_For goodness' sake, Arthur, who else is going to take the seat? Of course the man can move if he bloody wants to! We're getting paid for a full year of service with only one flight; give them the stupid hat off your head if they ask for it!_" an old woman's voice railed from behind the thin door. Before "Earth's Mightiest Heroes" could look up and see him fidgeting in the aisle, John quickly turned tail and moved to the back of the jet, trying to make the remaining four hours of the journey somewhat comfortable with curious eyes peering back at him every ten minutes.

"You're quite certain he is the Son of Coul's brethren?" boomed the enormous blond with the hammer.

"Thor!" a chorus of warning voices replied.

John shut his eyes and leaned against the window to try blocking them all out again. This was just too surreal to believe. Maybe he was dreaming, and would wake up along in Baker Street again. He wasn't sure which would be better. Even now, so far taken aback in the face of all this, John could feel the old thrill stirring in his chest like when he first met Sherlock again. The past year of his life had been so bleak, so lacking, that even this small brush with something new put everything in color again.

With only an hour left of the flight, Fury got up and sauntered back to the seat ahead of John's, looking back at him. John stared him in the eye. "This trip isn't about Phil," he said.

"Of course it's about Phil," retorted Fury. The _you dumb fuck_ at the end was heavily implied. "It's about the important work he was doing for SHIELD, and who's going to take his place." He set John with a stern look. "You think I didn't Google you when I found out you're Agent Coulson's next of kin? You think I didn't read your file? Hell, I even read your stupid-ass blog. You see these assembled toddlers behind me?"

He pointed over his shoulder, and John looked just in time to see the short-haired man - Hawkeye, the archer - attempting to climb over the seats into the same row as the Hulk and the Black Widow even though he was sitting in the aisle and could have just gotten up. Meanwhile, Thor was attempting to dump three packets of aeroplane pretzels into his mouth at once, Stark was on his mobile despite the strict policy against using electronics while in flight, and Rogers was snickering at what he'd doodled in the margins of his newspaper.

Fury rose an eyebrow when John looked back at him. "Making sure these idiots don't kill each other was Agent Coulson's main gig. You have experience with adults who act like children. It seems that you're the perfect man for the job, Doctor Watson."

"You want me to babysit your superheroes when they aren't out saving the world?" snorted John.

"Among other things, yes."

"Absolutely not."

"Don't rush into the decision or anything," Fury deadpanned. John fumed. "Just take a few days to think it over. Get Agent Coulson's affairs in order, do some sight-seeing, then come back and talk to me. If you haven't changed your mind, I'll get you a ticket home and you'll forget I ever asked."

John quirked an eyebrow. "Literally or figuratively?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out. I'll see you at the funeral, Doctor."

He scoffed and turned back to the window as Fury sauntered away. Like _hell_ would be spending more than the absolute necessary time around these yahoos.


	2. Chapter 2

Though Manhattan was still in the middle of repairs after the alien attack that had killed dozens of others besides John's cousin, the airport seemed fully intact and was just as bustling as Heathrow. Security was much tighter when it came to incoming foreign flights, but Fury flashed an ID and they were all let through without so much as a pat-down. A few people called out to the Avengers in varying states of admiration or disgust, but only Stark took notice with a peace sign flashed at every one of them. It was like "thank you" and "fuck you" at the exact same time, depending on who he was flashing it at. The rest of them tuned it out.

"You're an Army man," commented Rogers as John shouldered his duffel.

It was almost too similar to "Afghanistan or Iraq?" for him, but he quickly shut that thought out. "I was one, yes, but that's over with now," he instead replied.

Rogers smiled, wide and genuine and far too kind. "It's never really over, though, is it?" he asked knowingly. He was way too young - or maybe too old - to talk like he knew anything about warfare.

Then one of the distant people calling out weren't so distant. He was, in fact, very near them now and brandishing what looked like a hypodermic needle filled with an unidentified liquid as he rushed toward Bruce Banner's turned back. Rogers was leaning forward to retrieve his bag from the loop, everyone's backs were turned, Fury and the Black Widow were out of sight, and so three quick strides later John had the man's arm twisted behind him and a knee between his shoulder blades. "Put it down, now, please," he said calmly. Instead he flailed his trapped hand, trying to stick John with the needle. Airport security was coming upon them, but that didn't stop John slamming his head into the tile floor and carefully trying to pry the needle from his fingers.

"_You - all - will - pay_," gasped the man before finally jabbing the needle into his own back, just as security took over. He was dead within seconds. Dark hair fell across his face as the security officers turned him over. Blood poured from every hole in his face, and it looked far too familiar.

John turned quickly away. It had been a bloody _year_. He needed to get over himself. "Are you alright? He didn't stick you?" he asked Banner lightly. Banner, Stark, and Hawkeye were all staring at him with incredulous looks on their faces. Rogers was smiling knowingly. Since Banner was still standing, John assumed not, shrugged, and picked his bags up from where he'd haphazardly dropped them and set out in search of Fury.

"W- hold on one hot second, a man wearing a sweater that fluffy should not be able to do that!" called Stark before running after him. He caught up to John's side and started poking him in the shoulder as he pestered him. "No, really, how do you kick four kinds of ass in Granny's knitwear? Is there some sort of lightweight titanium alloy woven into the wool? Do you pre-treat it in the blood of your enemies? Voodoo magic? Baby hair?"

He rounded on Stark and saw that he was grinning. Even if the billionaire was using an annoyingly sarcastic tone, there was open admiration and respect there. "Eh, soaked in radium, actually," he said lightly, then turned to Rogers with a hand outstretched when Stark laughed and walked away. "And I suppose you're right as well. Captain John Watson, formally of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Nice to meet you, Captain Rogers."

"Call me Steve," replied the taller man with a warm handshake. "I think you're supposed to stay with us at Stark Tower until Agent Coulson's things are taken care of. Director Fury told us to be nice to you so you'll want to stick around. I don't think it'll be too hard, really, I can tell Tony likes you. Bruce is probably going to want to thank you for saving his life at some point, Clint always likes to prank new agents to welcome them to the family, Natasha's going to want to keep you around long enough to analyze you - she's harmless, really - and, well, I just think you're a decent fella."

Looking into _Captain fucking America'_s big shiny blues, smiling so earnestly and so relaxed, John couldn't help but wonder what the hell he'd done to wind up with this life. He'd certainly wanted to be a soldier as a kid, and a doctor after that, but there were never any plans of mad detectives, or of having an adrenaline addiction, of late nights and weak coffee and chasing starlight across London, and there were definitely no superheroes in the equation either. He'd dreamt of a pretty wife, two or three kids, a nice house and steady work until he got too old and creaky, of dying in a warm bed surrounded by the people who loved him. That dream was gone with the first gunshot, the one that killed the cabbie, the first time he really felt alive after coming home. And now that was dead too.

He smiled up at Steve and clapped him on the shoulder. "Thanks, mate. I suppose this trip won't be all bad with a decent bloke like you around, either," he replied after what was probably far too long. Still, Steve just smiled and led the way back to the rest of the group. They were ushered into a stretch limousine with an extravagant "A" on the side and driven through the parts of the city that weren't still being put back together after the alien attack, until pulling up to the most garish tower John had ever seen before. "What's with this, then? It's ugly as sin."

"I heard that!" shouted Stark. Steve just laughed.

At the ground level of Stark Tower they were greeted by a smooth British voice coming from the ceiling. "Welcome home, Mister Stark and Avengers. Everyone's rooms have been tidied in your absence, and a room has been prepared for Mister Watson as per your wishes, Mister Stark," it said. Steve jumped slightly when the voice spoke up, but very quickly composed himself and flushed bright red, looking around to make sure no one saw.

John shot Stark a mutinous look. "Did the robot butler _really_ have to be British?" he asked wryly.

"Not a robot!" Stark snapped. "Artificial Intelligence! It's the finest in the world so drink it in, Prince Albert. Now, let's get to business. The tower has eighty floors, top ten are R&D, then my office space, and the next six down belong to the crew in the order of: Me, Bruce, Tasha, Clint, Thor, and Cap; you'll be the floor below those, with the rest of the guest apartments, take your pick. Try not to stay up giggling with Steve all night, because Thor needs his beauty sleep and he'll use that hammer if you disrupt his moisturizing routine." He grinned and winked at the enormous blond man before hitting the elevator button.

"Everyone has their own kitchen for breakfast and lunch, fridge is fully stocked, but we have dinner family-style in my apartment, no exceptions unless you're away on a mission, which you obviously won't be. There was an apartment here for Coulson, but the tower wasn't finished until right before he died. I'll take you to his place once the jet lag wears off. Sleepy?"

He'd just been stifling a yawn behind his hand. The jet had taken off in mid-morning, flown for eight hours, and now it was midday again. It wasn't that John was tired, exactly, but he knew that he would be worn out before everyone in America was, and the anticipation almost seemed to make it worse. "No, I'm fine. I'll just, erm, unpack my things, then. Thank you for letting me stay here, by the way, Mr. Stark. My friend followed your work very...closely," he said, offering another handshake.

Stark grasped his hand tightly, then took the closeness as an opportunity to scrutinize him. "So. You're Coulson's cousin. You don't really look alike, but I can see the family resemblance anyway. He did the innocent little puppy dog thing too, you know, with the face? His face looked like yours, a little tired, a little exasperated, but always nice. Even when he was kicking someone's ass so hard they ended up wearing his shoe as a hat, he had such a pleasant face. You had that guy on the floor with a lethal injection millimeters away from your flesh and you actually said _Please_. You're just..." He shook his head with a little laugh. "You're fucking weird, man. You'll fit right in."

The elevator dinged and stopped at the end of a long corridor with two doors on each side. "There you go. Pick an apartment. JARVIS is already in your phone, text him how you like your steak, and I'll see you for dinner. Get my number from JARVIS or come right up if you need anything else. _Ciao_, Doc." He clapped John on the arm one last time and shut the elevator behind him.

John took a deep breath, relishing the silence as the elevator hummed away. Tony Stark certainly knew how to talk a man's ear off, and even if John hadn't felt like talking, he wouldn't have gotten a word in if he had. He took a few steps away from the elevator and felt the plush carpet sink slightly under his weight. God, how much did building this monstrosity cost? Still. Not too fussy about which apartment he'd be living in until Phil's affairs were in order, he made for the first door on the...

_Obvious. Simple military man, left-handed, dragging his bag in the right, you can tell by the indentations in the carpet. He didn't care about appearances or excellent views, so he took the apartment nearest at hand, the first on the left. Do keep up, John._

Shaking his head, he turned and took the apartment on the right. It was a far cry from Baker Street, almost twice as big and infinitely less personal. Sleek modern furniture and appliances, gleaming hardwood floors, a bathroom the size of 221B's whole living room, and a bed almost as big as the flat's bathroom. He neatly folded his clothes into one of the bureau drawers, sat on the bed, and missed his home. Sherlock would have loved all the things he could deduce from Tony Stark's imperious tower of a home. He missed the late nights, the cross-city chases, hushed laughter in the front hall, free takeaway after four consecutive nights without sleep, the inexplicable feeling that he wasn't all alone in the world...

Really, though, he just missed Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

Dinner that night was a quiet affair, at least on John's part. He was too tired to offer anything of substance to the conversation going around, but got in his fair share of observation. Really, Sherlock would be proud and _he really had to stop thinking about Sherlock so much._ Stark sat at the head of the table, in a Led Zeppelin t-shirt and ripped jeans yet still managing to look like a leader. On his right was Banner, on his left Agent Romanoff. Steve was on the opposite end with John and Thor squeezed in on his right and Agent Barton on his left. Thor ate like a horse on steroids. Clint ate like he was a little kid trying desperately to keep up with Thor, watching him while shoveling food into his mouth.

_Hero-worship. Ironic, considering they're all part of an alleged team of heroes._

Banner kept mostly to himself, like John, but when Stark turned and asked him a question they were both suddenly going a hundred miles a minute, speaking absolute gibberish science stuff John couldn't understand if he had an open textbook in front of him. Thor and Steve were comparing battle strategies over John's head. Natasha looked down the table and threw anything people asked to be passed. "So Doctor Watson, I heard you saved Bruce's life at the airport today," she said conversationally midway through the meal.

"More like stopped the Big Guy from tearing half the airport to pieces," commented Banner idly, but he turned to John with a timid smile. "Thanks, Doc. I owe you one."

John quickly shook his head, face heating. "It's fine. Just doing..." _What, John? Your job? It's not your job to baby me! Stop your mother-henning and look up the rate of decomposition when exposed to dry ice, the article's on my website and I seem to have deleted some details about-_

"Doctor Watson?" prompted Banner in his small voice, and John realized that he never finished his sentence, and his hands were shaking. "You okay?"

Everyone was staring at him. John quickly put down his fork and wiped his mouth with a napkin. Just as he was pushing off from the table the dining room door opened, and Director Fury stepped in with an obvious look at John that screamed _You stay the hell down, son_. "Evening, kids," he said slowly. "Mind if I join you? I just got out of a meeting with the council, and I'm starving. Agent Barton? Can I squeeze in?" Though John could hardly imagine a man like Director Fury doing anything as banal as _squeezing_, he took a spare chair from the corner and did just that, looking severely disgruntled, while Steve quickly threw a plate together for him. "So, Doctor Watson, how are you liking New York?"

"For all the six hours I've been here without leaving the tower? Fantastic," retorted John, suddenly much more interested in his meal than he had just been. He didn't like Nick Fury, didn't like the way he tried shoving John into a box, shaping him into the man that best suited his needs at the moment.

Fury didn't seem at all put off by John's clipped reply, instead humming as he buttered a roll. "Well, maybe you'll get out tomorrow to see some of the sights. The Statue of Liberty really looks beautiful if you go out in the morning this time of year. Steve or Bruce could take you, I'm sure they wouldn't mind," he said.

"I don't much feel like doing any sightseeing while there's work to be done, Director Fury."

"There's plenty of time to take care of Agent Coulson's affairs, and since you have no set returning flight-"

"Then I would like to set one."

Conversation around the table hadn't picked up since John failed to finish his earlier sentence. No one was even attempting to pretend they weren't staring at the tense conversation. Well, Steve still was, but he was from the forties, propriety was ingrained into the nervous system back then. Stark was actually looking like he wanted a bowl of popcorn, grinning as he watched the proceedings. "Now, don't rush anything, Doctor. After all, we want to take as much time to get Agent Coulson's affairs in order as possible, don't we?" he asked.

John rolled his eyes and abandoned his meal to stare Fury down, no longer hungry. "If I want to take as much time with Phil's things as possible, then why would I be sightseeing? With all due respect, _make up your mind, Director Fury_. I'm not going to play into your games, so tell me the truth. Am I really here to sort through Phil's things, or am I here so you can pull the strings and watch me dance?"

"You're here because we need you here, John."

"What exactly do you need me for, _Nick?_ You've already got quite the breakfast club going."

"I have already told you, we need someone to fill Agent Coulson's place on the team."

"You've got any number of trained agents at your disposal, why not use one of them?"

Slamming his fist on the table, Fury made half the table jump and John sat angrily back. "If you would listen to me for two damn minutes, you'd understand that I did not just seek you out for my benefit. As I said on the plane, I've read your file and your blog. We all have. We all wanted to know where Agent Coulson's only surviving relative came from. You need us just as much as we need you, John."

He very quietly swallowed and nodded. "Is that so? All my dirty laundry's out, then. Fine. That's fine. But that doesn't mean that you know anything about me. I do not _need_ you. At all. Don't you dare presume otherwise," he growled. Steve ducked his head, looking almost painfully guilty.

"John," said Fury quietly, in probably his version of tenderness or empathy, "You lost your partner, and since then you have lost sight of who you are. You've lost the fight. Don't pretend being around these people, you don't feel the fight coming back. When Sherlock Holmes committed suicide, you lost your livelihood-'

"My _livelihood?_" John shouted. Stark knocked over his wine glass flinching in surprise. "You listen to me, you sick, twisted-! I lost a hell of a lot more than my fucking _livelihood_, a fun job and a decent colleague, you twat. I lost my _best friend_, I lost my partner, I lost the best and wisest man I've ever known. And you know what, people say you can't choose your family, but I did. He was my family. He was an arrogant, self-absorbed, chemical disaster of a man, but he was more of a family than any of you will ever know. Don't you dare reduce what I had with him into a _livelihood_."

Fury sat back. "And you don't think you need something to fill that void?"

Absolutely infuriated, he pushed back from the table and ruined a perfectly staged exit by knocking over his chair and being forced to stop and put it back up before storming out. He slammed every available door behind him, knowing full well that he was acting like a petulant teenager, but for fuck's sake, what did they want from him? To dive into their little team and forget everything he'd lost or left behind? He punched the elevator button until it lit up, then was forced to shove his hands in his pockets and wait for it to come up. The chance of finding stairs in this behemoth was slim.

"Doctor Watson! Hey, John, wait a second!"

He didn't turn as Bruce jogged toward him, instead jabbing the button again and kneading his forehead with the heel of his free hand. "I'm sure that whatever you have to say is very sweet and moving, Doctor Banner, but I'm not interested. I have had a very long day, and - do you know it's only six thirty? Why the hell do Americans eat so bloody early? It's ridiculous! And where does this elevator go, the seventh circle of _bloody - fucking - Hell?_" with each final word he punched the button again, feeling his heartbeat spike dangerously until Banner grasped his shoulder.

John whipped around to try throwing him off, then remembered what would inevitably happen if he got the other man too worked up and pulled back to knock into the elevator doors. Bruce smiled a bit self-deprecatingly. "Sorry, I shouldn't have done that. I don't like being touched when I'm upset either," he apologized. "And, listen, I know that you probably don't want to hear it right now, but...it's been a year, right? Since...well. I mean, I'm no one to talk, but I know what it's like, to get low like that, to be alone."

"I don't care," insisted John, though the doctor in him was rearing up in concern and wanting to talk him through his troubles. The elevator doors finally, blessedly, opened and he dove in, jabbing at the DOOR CLOSE button, but Bruce stuck his arm in.

"You know what's funny though, John? I didn't want to be here either. Then in two days, I was a part of something again, and they became my family to fill up what I'd lost. Just think about it, okay?" John nodded so Bruce would back off, and back off he did.

The elevator doors started to slide shut, but he jammed his arm in as an afterthought to get them open again. "Oh, and by the way, Natasha says if you ever disrupt dinner again, she'll personally ensure you drown in a pool of your own piss, blood, and toenail clippings. See you later, Doctor Watson." His voice never wavered from its usual pleasant-yet-shy tone, and he smiled as he pulled his arm out one last time and walked away without looking back.

John thumped his head against the back wall of the elevator and prodded the floor button with his foot. Was he being ridiculous? It was possible that he was overreacting due to tiredness and the simple fact that he'd not allowed himself to feel so much in a very long time. After Sherlock died, something inside John broke and after the initial mourning period, he'd sunk into a state of numbness. He'd gone through the motions, went to work, smiled when it was appropriate, helped Mrs. Hudson with the shopping, but none of it had felt real. He hardly left the flat; not even Greg could coax him out and he eventually stopped trying. Then Phil had died, and he was surrounded by extraordinary people once again, and though that should have made him feel alive it only made him hurt because _none of these people are Sherlock_.

Still. Maybe he was being ridiculous. Maybe it was time to let go. But he didn't _want_ to let go! He wanted this hellish nightmare to be over, he wanted Sherlock to stop playing games and _come home_, he wanted to wake up and feel something other than misery or anger or pain or... It wasn't always as bad as he felt in the past few days. Sometimes he could go days or weeks feeling close to normal before an unwarranted wave of grief would run at him, slam into his chest like a rugby tackle, and leave him aching and breathless with missing Sherlock. It was like a hole had been carved between his ribs with a rusty spoon.

_I don't want to feel like this anymore_.

As soon as he was back in his apartment, John called Mrs. Hudson and explained the unusual job offer he'd received. They talked for a long time, even though it was already past midnight in London, and by the end of the conversation his decision had been made. Mycroft had been paying the rent on Baker Street anyway, and John wasn't staying in America forever. He would give it a few months and see how things went, then return to London when he had found another agent suitable to take his place. It made sense, and Mrs. Hudson was glad to see him taking an interest in things again.

"You'd better be home for Christmas, though, young man," she warned him.

John smiled. "Of course, Mrs. Hudson. I'll talk to you soon."


	4. Chapter 4

It was almost laughably easy, falling into his role as Official Babysitter of the Avengers. They all stayed in Stark Tower until Phil's funeral, which John felt terrible about being in charge of arranging. He hadn't known Phil, after all, aside from a few family get-togethers when they were both very small, and so he had no idea what Phil or even Phil's friends would have liked in his funeral. Though, at Stark's ("Um, newsflash, dude, my name's Tony, capeesh?") insistence, the service was devoid of religious talk. John didn't mind that. A girl from Oregon came and played a song on the cello during the time for friends to speak about the deceased. He didn't understand the significance, but he was glad someone had cared enough to cross the country for his cousin.

After the funeral - which had consisted only of SHIELD agents, the Avengers, and the cellist anyway - all the assembled Avengers drifted out of Stark Tower one by one. Natasha and Clint were the first out, called away on a mission in Amsterdam. Then Thor received an urgent message from his home, Asgard, went to the top of Stark Tower, and didn't come back. "He does that," Tony said. Steve went on a publicity tour a few days after that, trying to make up for the nation's indecision over whether the world needed superheroes. He seemed to have experience in the matter, anyway. Bruce stayed in Stark Tower. So did John, though he intended to find a flat - apartment - closer to the ground.

Life was quieter without the rest of the team around, but John was busy. He'd started training again, getting back into his old army shape after spending a year stagnant with grief. Every morning he went for a run through the city, appreciating the Statue of Liberty at sunrise just as much as Fury had said he would, and every evening he did his old exercise routine from basics. So what if he took two showers a day? Tony seemed to have more than enough money, an extra shower's worth of water on the bill wouldn't make much difference.

The "family dinners" were definitely something he could do without, though. Watching Bruce and Tony amiably discuss astrophysics over beef stew was one thing; trying to pretend he didn't feel like a third wheel was another. Their close kinship after only knowing one another for a matter of days or weeks was so strongly reminiscent of how quickly he and Sherlock had fallen together that it was like looking into a mirror, only smarter than him and American. Tony was like Sherlock in that he was arrogant and rich and easily bored, but he hid behind a crackpot sense of humor rather than coldness. Bruce, however, almost seemed like the end result of Sherlock and John running at each other at full speed and, rather than colliding and bouncing away, fusing together into one funny little man. Quiet, short, empathetic and self-depreciating like John, but with Sherlock's brilliance, dark hair, and penchant for purple button-up shirts. At least his shirts fit properly.

"Something funny, Doc?" Tony asked, and John realized he was smiling down at his glass of water.

Red-faced, he looked up and saw the pair of scientists weren't anxious or embarrassed the last time John had fallen into his thoughts during a meal, but smiling in anticipation of hearing what he had to say. "I was just thinking about something my friend used to do," he dismissed, knowing they wouldn't get it even if he explained.

Bruce nodded and picked at his bread. "It's nice to see you smiling, John," he said quietly.

Tony shot him an incredulous look. "'Nice to see you smiling'? What, are we gonna go braid each other's hair and read aloud from our diaries next? Come on, Banner, man up a little!" he mocked, winking when Bruce ducked his head. "No, but really, we should get drunk tonight. Like, really drunk. You in, Doc?" He leaned forward and grinned winningly and Bruce mutely shook his head while staring down at his plate.

"Well, I don't see what it'll hurt, as long as I don't have anything on with Director Fury," he tentatively agreed.

"Screw Fury, you've been training for two weeks. Ooh! Let's watch Die Hard! That's like training!"

So that was how John was coerced into spending an evening trying to get drunk on weak American beer while watching Die Hard in Tony Stark's massive entertainment lounge. It wasn't as awkward as he feared it would be, really; watching quiet, taciturn Bruce mouth along to every line and listening to Tony's rants about how most action-movie stunts weren't physically possible, he quite enjoyed himself.

The next morning, rubbing sleep from his eyes after trying to wash away the smell of stale beer that was seeping from his pores, his phone buzzed with a text from Director Fury saying _Happy to see you're acclimating_. John wrinkled his nose and erased the message without another thought.

There wasn't much for John to do other than training in the first weeks of his life in New York, but when one day he opened his closet to find eight identically nondescript black suits hanging there, he knew that things were about to change. His first assignment came by text only hours later: helicopter to a remote location and get Clint and Natasha from their latest assignment. It wasn't meant to be a difficult job, not for his first assignment, but of course things never seemed to work out in his favor.

He landed with ease at the end of the empty road, but within seconds of Clint and Natasha's approach it was no longer empty. SUVs, filled with the men who had been smuggling underage immigrant girls into prostitution, suddenly flooded the street and started shooting. Hawkeye pulled four arrows from his holster and shot them simultaneously into the fray, while the Black Widow unsheathed her guns without missing a single step.

It was almost like a dance, watching how seamlessly Clint and Natasha worked together, and they moved like they'd been dancing partners for years. Each step, every move, every breath was carefully measured and executed in perfect harmony, their bodies so familiar with one another that they could predict and match their partner's every move without a word. There was so much trust and respect in the way they fought that John knew Sherlock could have deduced their entire relationship from a barest glance.

John only spared himself that brief moment of appreciation before tugging his gun free and helping keep a solid cover so the agents could clamber into the copter. Four of the six SUVs were destroyed, and it was unclear how many of the smugglers were still alive. "So, pleasant trip?" he asked the breathless pair as the helicopter lifted off.

Natasha shrugged. "On a scale of Myanmar to Barcelona, I'd give it about a Ghana," she flippantly said. She turned to Clint as though expecting him to laugh, and it was then John noticed the archer was clutching a bleeding hole in his side. "Is there a first aid kit on board, Doctor?"

Already digging in a cubbyhole behind him, John gestured over his shoulder for Clint to pull off his body armor. "I haven't done stitches on a helicopter in ages, this should be fun," he said lightly, and set quickly to work picking debris out. The copter was shuddering in turbulence and Natasha watching with barely-restrained murder in her eyes, so naturally his hands were steady as a rock. It made a pretty clean gash, whatever he'd been hit with, which made John's job much easier. By the time they reached Stark Tower Clint was safely dozing with his head in Natasha's lap, and John's nice new suit was ruined, the crisp white shirt pinked with blood all down the front.

"And that's why you have eight," Tony would off-handedly say to a profusely apologetic John later. "Don't worry, I have a great dry cleaner. There are leftovers in my fridge if you're interested; I think Tasha's already in there."

That news was enough to set John's nerves on edge; he didn't know why Natasha made him so anxious to be alone with. Maybe some deep down part of him felt intimidated by a woman who could probably kill him with her pinkie finger, but then again, he'd been around plenty of skilled and competent women in his time and never felt shy around them. Maybe he could just sense that she'd been through more than she intentionally gave away. It was a relatable feeling, after all. Either way, he went down to his apartment to change before returning in the hopes he would miss her.

Naturally, she was just tucking into an enormous sandwich when he came through in his favorite jumper and jeans. Not even looking up, she pushed a second plate across the island toward him. "I didn't make this," she growled in warning.

"I wouldn't expect you to," he insisted quickly, face rapidly heating as he say across and one seat to her right. Before the silence could last too long he asked, "Did Agent Barton seem comfortable when he went to bed? I could get a stronger painkiller down to him before I turn in."

Natasha rolled her eyes, though it seemed more self-indulgent than annoyed with him. "I already gave him something. He was trying to play tough, but I know he's a big baby." John smiled around a mouthful of turkey and cheese and she shook her head with a smirk. "Your hands are very steady, Doctor Watson."

He sensed that was as close to saying 'thank you' as she would get. "Thanks," he replied. Silence threatened to sit on them again, and he wracked his mind for something to say. "You don't know where I could find some decent tea, do you?" _Oh, good, now she's probably going to think you asked because you don't think women drink coffee, you sexist bastard, shit..._

"Not in Tony's kitchen, that's for certain," snorted Natasha with her mouth full of tomato. "I have some Russian imports in my apartment, but I like it spicier than what you probably want at this hour; I'd ask Bruce. He's probably still up."

"Brilliant, cheers."

She smiled tightly and dropped her eyes to finish eating in silence. It wasn't as awkward as he'd feared after that, and Bruce gave him an entire box of teabags to tide him over until he could have Mrs. Hudson post the brand he liked. All things considered, it seemed a successful first assignment. For the first time in a year he slept dreamlessly.

Two floors up, Natasha crept soundlessly into Clint's apartment, pulled off her jumpsuit to trade for the pajamas she kept in his bureau, and climbed under the sheets beside him. Even when sound asleep, he rolled over and childishly flung an arm and leg around her. She curled against his uninjured side with a sigh of relief - quietly glad that Watson had been there to patch Clint up; she would have stuck a wad of gauze on it and then used dental floss and tequila under her flickering bathroom light otherwise, and it wouldn't be nearly as clean or painless. She was a killer, not a healer - and fell quickly asleep.

Bruce was in his apartment with a mug of tea and his laptop, reading The Science of Deduction with a furrow of concentration between his brows. It would be hours yet before he surrendered to his insomnia medication.

"Hey Pep, how's the publicity tour? Are Cap and Happy behaving? You know it's kind of funny, all of your names could be shortened to three letters. Cap, Hap, and Pep. You should make a band," Tony rambled with his feet propped up on the coffee table. Then Pepper started talking and the smile faded from his face. "Oh. No, I don't really have anything to...but I guess you can say your bit and we'll, uh, call it a done deal." He stood up and retrieved a bottle of whiskey from the bar in the corner, barely listening to the long-rehearsed speech before hanging up and pouring himself a generous glass.

Halfway across the country, Steve ducked hastily back into his hotel room before Pepper could see him. He listened guiltily as she crossed the hall, slid into Happy's room, and murmured, "It's over," in a voice thick with tears.

Far away, worlds and galaxies and stars away, Thor stood outside of a cage that could hold back entire armies but housed only one small man capable of so much more. "Brother, please look at me," he pleaded. Green eyes dark with anger rose to meet his. Loki jerked his chin at Thor in a clear signal to go away, the metal gag still choking his silver tongue, then turned his back. Thor hung his head and returned to his chambers. He refused to give up on his brother, but it seemed that he was the only Asgardian who still believed Loki could be good.


	5. Chapter 5

"John! John! Doc Watson! Hey, John! Wake up! Hey! _Jooooohhhn!_"

John rolled over and groaned, "Fucksake, Sh'lock," before pulling the duvet over his head. "_What_."

The incessant knocking on his door continued. "John, I made waffles! Or I mean Bruce...made waffles. And there's fruit an' shit!" Tony shouted through the door. John sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"Tony, why are you drunk at..." he checked the clock and fought another groan, "seven in the morning?"

There was a small thump as Tony seemingly fell against the door. "Well see I started drunking at two and jus' sorta never...stopped. Was talking to-to-to, uh...Popper." He giggled hysterically.

With a heavy sigh he dragged himself out of bed, and pulled on a dressing gown before shuffling to the door. Tony was still dressed in the clothes he'd been wearing the night before, but they were rumpled and stained with sweat and spilled booze. "Doc Watson!" he cheered when the door opened, and nearly fell right in onto the floor. John put an arm around his waist and dragged him into the apartment, dropping the billionaire onto his sofa before flicking on the coffee maker. Despite the other man's moaning and carryings-on, John very pointedly did not give him a moment's attention until he had two large mugs of coffee at hand.

"Alright, tell me what happened with Pepper," he sighed, depositing one of the mugs on the low table in front of Tony. He'd only met Pepper twice, but she seemed like a lovely woman with the patience of a saint. The first thing she'd said to him was, "So you're SHIELD's new agent? Welcome to the babysitter's club," with a wry smile. Then Tony had made some disparaging comment that made her roll her eyes even while kissing him.

From what he'd gathered, Tony and Pepper spent almost as much time acting like a couple as they did screaming at each other. Even though he'd only spoke with Pepper twice, Tony would often be missing from dinner but could be heard in another room fighting with her. It seemed she'd finally become fed up with all the arguing, even without Tony's explanation. All he did was stare dolefully into his coffee and look miserable. While he was catatonic, John pulled out his medical kit and drew enough blood for Bruce to test; Tony didn't even flinch. After it became clear that he was not going to drink the coffee, John finished his and hauled him back upright to go up the elevator. "Come on, Tony, let's go get waffles and fruit and shit."

"I don' want fruit, I want...charkled chips."

At least that was what it sounded like he said.

"Well, we'll talk to Bruce about chocolate chips. We'll have to ask nicely."

"'m always nice."

"Of course you are."

Bruce was searching around the top apartment for Tony when they reached him, and his face collapsed in relief when the elevator finally made it up. "Oh, jeez, two seconds and you wake the whole house?" he groaned. "Sorry, John, I've been keeping an eye on him since he started banging around at four, but I fell asleep. It was maybe ten minutes. He's like a child, I'm sorry. Tony, come on, you're going to eat and then you're going to bed."

There were dark circles under the scientist's eyes, and his hands were trembling as he wrestled Tony into a chair with far more success than John had had. "You okay?" asked John once Tony was settled at the table with a waffle and small bowl of chocolate chips to dump on it.

"Oh, I'm fine," smiled Bruce shakily, running both hands through his unruly hair. "I'd just taken my sleeping pills ten minutes before he started going nuts; I guess I'm still reacting."

John checked his pupils - dilated - and gently steered him toward the door. "Don't worry yourself and go to bed, I can take care of him," he insisted. It was a mark of just how tired Bruce was, that he went without argument. John sat across the table from Tony and watched him eat, then found a large bowl for him to vomit in when the waffle came back up.

"I'm dying!" Tony dramatically announced after John half-carried him to his frankly enormous bed. He was covered in sweat, reeking of booze, and vomiting up everything he'd eaten in the past 24 hours, but certainly not dying. John patiently rucked the duvet up to his chin and dragged the rubbish bin to his side. "Eurgh. You're...a good guy, Doc. Good pal, cool g-uy. Let's be friends..._five_-ever," he giggled and hiccuped.

"Of course we will," agreed John. He sat on the opposite side of the bed and pulled a book from the end table. It was evidently one of Pepper's, a mystery novel about an aging woman on a search for her long-lost daughter. "Do you want me to box up some of Pepper's things, get it out of the way?"

Tony groggily nodded as he fell asleep, so John got up, checked that the genius was in a position not to drown in his own sick, and set about finding all the girly things in the flat - _apartment_, Jesus. There were more books in the end table, some flowery soaps and sensibly feminine shampoo in the bathroom, a set of clothes and pajamas in the bureau, and - John was absurdly proud of his attention to detail - an elastic band with a single red hair still clinging to its fabric coating under the sofa. He couldn't find a box, and so folded everything as neatly as he could and put it in a bin liner, then concealed it under an armchair so Tony wouldn't have to look at it.

Over the next two hours John repeatedly checked Tony's pulse, breathing, and temperature to make sure he didn't have alcohol poisoning, then tapped him on the head until he woke up with a startled a grunt. "Just checking you were asleep and not unconscious," he said lightly. "Feeling okay? Nausea, headache, anything?"

"Both," moaned Tony.

He retreated quickly to the bathroom and dug out two aspirin, filled a glass with water, and brought it back to the bedroom. "Take these, drink all of this, and I think you should live to see another day. I'll be right outside watching your telly; give a shout if you need anything." The only reply was a garbled moan and the sound of slurping water.

Tony slept on and off for the rest of the day, though every time he woke up to use the toilet John made him drink another glass of water, even managing to coax a few crackers into him. Bruce showed up with a sandwich for John around lunchtime, looking much better, and took over babysitting so he could get about his day. Though there really wasn't much day for him to get about, so he stayed in Tony's apartment and watched American football with Bruce. Neither of them really understood or cared for the game, and switched it to cricket ten minutes in.

"When I was in Calcutta, the local kids used to make me play with them," Bruce reminisced. "They thought I knew how to play because I was smart, and they played cricket at the universities, you know? But I didn't know a damn thing about cricket, they had to teach me. At least that made them feel good, to know something the 'Doctor Man' didn't."

"I was a rugby man, myself," John shrugged, and Bruce cringed at the very idea. "Played ever since I was a kid, all the way through school and university. I even got a pickup team together among my mates in the army. All the public school boys in my neighborhood, the ones in the big houses on the hill, played cricket. Er, private school," he corrected, remembering the difference in slang, but Bruce grinned and shook his head to show he understood.

They watched the rest of the game in companionable silence, only speaking when something ridiculous happened or Tony got up to have a piss. Just before they considered waking him to have dinner with Clint and Natasha, Bruce reached across the gap between them and stopped John getting up. "Hey, John, I just wanted to tell you, um. I. Well, I saw on your blog that there was a link to this other website, the Science of Deduction one," he began cautiously, as though waiting for John to get angry.

"Sherlock's website, yeah," he nodded.

"Yeah. I was having a look last night. It was really, er, very interesting."

"It's okay, Bruce, you can say it was a boring load of shite."

They met eyes and John cracked a grin, then they both laughed. "I mean, it was all very scientifically appropriate," Bruce chuckled, "but he couldn't have made it any less interesting if he'd written it in his sleep."

"That probably would have made it even more interesting," John retorted, then sobered as he became contemplative again.

"I wish I could have met him."

John nodded but didn't speak for several long moments, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat. It was the first time someone had casually mentioned Sherlock like this. "I wish you could, too. I think he would have liked you," he nodded. "He would have _hated_ Tony."

They giggled like school children, enough to wake Tony and send him grumbling out into the living room to glare at them. "Oh, good, we were just going to wake you. It's almost time for dinner," said Bruce cheerfully, trying to stop laughing with a hand pressed against his lips. He and John studiously avoided looking at one another as they helped Tony put on clothes that didn't stink of whiskey and sick. Dinner passed in relative normality, though Tony was much quieter and John and Bruce talked more. Clint was feeling better too, though moving very stiffly; Natasha kept rolling her eyes at all of his and Tony's dramatic carryings-on.

"Looks like Doctor Watson was a sound investment after all," she wryly said.

It wasn't until three months later, when Steve was through with the publicity tour and Pepper had retrieved her things from Tony's apartment, that the incident was brought up again. It was clear that Tony was painfully embarrassed by the whole affair and wanted to pretend it hadn't happened, so why he was pounding at John's door at ten in the morning was a mystery. John had been changing, allowing himself an indulgence of sleeping in, and was therefore surprised to find that Tony was at the bedroom door and not the door to his apartment, grinning like a crazy person.

"What's going on?" John warily asked, seeing Tony, Bruce, Steve, Clint, and Natasha standing outside his bedroom.

"We have a present for you," Tony grinned manically, and dragged John bodily from his bedroom into the main room of his apartment where everyone was waiting. "Though, it was really my idea in the first place, these guys just came along for the ride so they wouldn't look bad. I wanted to thank you for not rubbing it in my face when I was being an asshole, you know, after Pepper and I broke up, taking it hard like any reasonable guy would when he loses a gorgeous piece of ass like that. So I set up a little arrangement that would be mutually beneficial for everyone involved. Sit here."

John was shoved down onto the sofa against his will, watching as Tony fiddled around with the telly he hardly used. Everyone was chatting as amiably as they would at a friendly party, refusing to so much as look at him, let alone give away what was going on. After ten minutes of swearing and tugging at the back of the box, he successfully hooked a little black device to the top of the monitor; a picture flickered onto the screen that was no television program John was familiar with. He had never really understood the term "A sight for sore eyes," until the breath was sucked out of his lungs and his eyes seemed to bulge painfully from his head.

"What do I do? Is it working? Oh dear, I don't know what buttons to press," Mrs. Hudson fretted, hands fluttering anxiously around her throat. She was probably only inches away from the camera on her end, and John laughed with a fist pressed to his mouth. He distinctly heard Natasha mutter, "I thought she'd be younger," and laughed. Tony started shouting instructions for Mrs. Hudson to step back until she was at a reasonable distance and could see them all. "Oh! John, dear, just look at you! Can you hear me?"

"I can hear you fine," grinned John, leaning forward onto his knees. "What about me?"

"Clear as a bell!" she laughed gleefully. "So, this lot must be the superheroes you tell me you're working for. I expect introductions, young man, and use your manners. I'm still your landlady, after all."

He went round the group and introduced everyone by their given names and their "super" names. They were all far more polite to Mrs. Hudson than they were around the tower. Several times Tony had to catch himself to keep from swearing, but Mrs. Hudson fixed him with a strong look as though she knew. Once they'd all said hello she caught John up on the latest gossip around the neighborhood.

"...and Mrs. Turner's married ones have been quarreling a lot lately; Billy wants to adopt a baby but Tom won't be hearing any of it. The DI's been by a few times to say hello. Mycroft too. I think he's lonely, the poor dear, what with everything that's happened. Every time he comes by I offer him a cup of tea, but he just goes straight up to the flat and sits for about an hour before leaving again. You know, it's probably just the anniversary coming up, but there are people out there - probably Sherlock's little Homeless Network, they were always so faithful - who've been putting up graffiti all over the city! 'Sherlock's innocent' this, and 'Moriarty was real' that; I can't even do my shopping without seeing it, most days. And Mrs. Turner, she's better at the computer stuff than I am, she says there are whole websites made just for debating who was telling the truth all along. Your blog's in a right state; you'll have to clean it up and start writing about your adventures with this lot now, won't you? Now, I was thinking that you should come a few weeks before Christmas, and we can make a proper holiday of it..."

One by one the others drifted out of John's apartment while Mrs. Hudson continued to chat amiably, seemingly oblivious to the loss of her audience, until only John was left. He'd forgotten just how much she excelled at talking, and though he'd seriously missed his landlady he had intended to actually run errands and go sparring with Steve later. Eventually he started looking around Mrs. Hudson's flat behind her for any reason why she ought to go.

_Nothing in the oven or on the stove, no water running, but there's still something. She dressed nicely - could have just been to look nice for your little video chat - but if she'd wanted to make an impression on your new _friends_ she would have changed just before the set time. No, she was trying to impress someone earlier today. Mister Chatterje again, Mrs. Hudson? He's not leaving his wife anytime soon, you know, John, she ought to just give up. Anyway, there's a note on the coffee table behind her, she wrote down the time for her date, which is in half an hour. There you go, run along and play soldier with the Super Friends, or the Beefcake Six, or whatever these ridiculous people call themselves._

"Mrs. Hudson, didn't you mention having a date tonight?"

"Oh! I'd completely forgotten! I ought to go, how do I turn this off?"

Once they'd successfully signed off John sighed deeply. What did she mean about the graffiti, anyway? Or the websites, as a matter of fact. John hadn't actually been on the computer in weeks, and certainly hadn't checked his blog since leaving London. In the weeks following Sherlock's death it was rife with idiots and attention-hungry teenagers looking for a good fight. Maybe people were finally starting to realize Sherlock had been innocent after all.

"Mister Watson, dinner's ready."

John jumped, then relaxed and shook his head at his own foolishness. Sometimes, when he wasn't paying attention, JARVIS sounded just like Mycroft. "On my way."


	6. Chapter 6

John thought the second anniversary of Sherlock's death would go easier than the first, that time would somehow make it softer in his memory, blur the edges of the images in his mind into something he could deal with. Instead it was a hot summer's day. John told Nick Fury to fuck off when he texted _How are you?_, put liquor in his morning tea, and was just going to go out and...do something, when Lestrade rang on Mrs. Hudson's webcam. He'd really taken a shining to the thing after she showed him how to use it, they'd had a few good chats.

"We've recently been sent some, er, evidence, in the post," explained the DI awkwardly. "It was anonymous, obviously, but since you're involved I reckoned you might want to hear it for yourself instead of through the grapevine."

It was six minutes of recorded audio, salvaged from Sherlock's phone, which had gone missing after his death. Moriarty and Sherlock's entire conversation, from _Stayin' Alive_ to just after Moriarty shot himself. There were several seconds of frantic, panicked breathing at the end of the recording - _Sherlock was terrified, he died afraid_- before it beeped to a stop. John's head had fallen into his hands and his heartbeat screamed through his veins.

"The whole world's going to know he was innocent now, John," Lestrade said. "This is airing on BBC in a few hours, there's no way anyone will possibly believe-"

John switched off his webcam. He sat in the dark of his flat and forced himself to take slow, even breaths until he was certain he wouldn't hyperventilate. He'd known all along that Sherlock was innocent and that Moriarty really was a fucking spider, of course, but now there was _proof_. Blessed, tangible, six-minute-long proof. The relief was so strong that he actually felt dizzy. He wanted to run, to celebrate, to tell someone that everything was alright now, but it was difficult for everyone in New York to fully grasp the concept of what had happened. The only person he really wanted to tell was Sherlock, and, well, that wasn't about to happen.

That afternoon Steve invited him to spar in the gym where everyone did their training, and he took to the offer like a moth to flame. The energy release was exhilarating, better than sex (though it was hard to tell, since he hadn't actually pulled in ages) and with much more thought involved. They warmed up for the first hour, then took turns holding punching bags to their chests while the other practiced aiming for weak spots on the torso. John supposed Steve wasn't Captain America for nothing, seeing as he was built like a fucking brick wall. He barely flinched when John - in the best shape he'd been in since Afghanistan - put all of his weight behind a punch, and it was obvious that he held back when it was John's turn to hold the bag.

"Having fun?"

The pair looked up and found Natasha watching them with arms crossed and one hip cocked. She was wearing casual workout clothes - no mission today.

"We are, actually. Care to join in?" replied John. Steve looked scandalized at the very idea, with an old soul like his, but John had trained with plenty of women in the army.

Natasha shrugged. "I only do hand-to-hand. Would that make you uncomfortable?"

He waved her in. Steve looked_ extremely_uncomfortable as John and Natasha started a slow-paced match. John had absolutely no illusions of holding his own against a well-trained assassin, though he was proud he'd managed to make it a few minutes in before she took him down. "Again?" he suggested, and she nodded.

They continued for perhaps fifteen minutes, each bout only lasting a few minutes before Natasha flattened him to the mats, before she finally looked John dead in the eyes and said, "Do you think if you'd been able to fight like this, you might have been able to save him?" John froze, blood running cold, then struck out toward her throat, which she dodged seamlessly. "Ever think maybe you could have done something differently, tried harder, run faster, ignored the decoy before it was too late? I wonder if you were in love with-"

John's vision flashed red, and he worried he was overheating until he realized it was Natasha's hair. Her back was flat to the mats, collarbone pinned down under his forearm, chest heaving to catch her breath, and a smile wide across her face. "Good job, John. I figured making you angry would give you a decent push." Then she twisted her legs out from under him, throwing his balance, and got up to retrieve a drink of water, leaving John breathless on the mats with Steve watching bug-eyed.

"Well, that was..." the super-soldier trailed off awkwardly, then picked up the punching bags to put away, pointedly avoiding John's eyes. Oh, God, Steve was from the _forties_ and Natasha had started to say John was in love with Sherlock. Fucking _shit_. He was going to put a lobster in her bed one of these days, he really was. Not only was it completely inappropriate to bring up at such a time, it was completely untrue, because John was _straight_. He and Sherlock hadn't been together, not like that. Now, of course, though, no matter how he tried to clear the air, Steve would probably think he was just making excuses and treat him like a pariah. Before anything else could happen to humiliate John, he escaped to his apartment for a shower before dinner.

A strange man was standing alone in the middle of his apartment. He had long dark hair and unnatural, electric-blue eyes, and was wearing a sensible suit with a green tie and scarf. "Who're you?" he asked, blinking sweat out of his eyes. "Are you another agent?" The man smirked, then grinned toothily; it was not a pleasant smile.

John only blinked, and was engulfed in blackness.

He'd never been in a coma before, but imagined this was what it must be like, or perhaps he _was_ in a coma. Maybe the man had hit him. But, no...there was something wrong. He...was moving? But he wasn't, he was unconscious, he was _in a coma_. Very faint sounds and sensations occurred to him, occasional flashes of vision that didn't make sense: a man cowering in fear against a steel wall, fire, a gun sat comfortably in his own hand. There was no way to sense time's passing, but somehow he knew that something terrible had happened to him. Another flash. Natasha with the same blue eyes as the man who'd taken him, consumed, staring out as she wrung a man's neck. Oh, god. He was possessed. It shouldn't be too surprising, considering the fact that he was in league with superheroes, which meant there had to be supervillains as well, but why him?

It was eight weeks (so he would learn) before he was woken up by a bash on the head. Thor stood above him, looking menacing and, well, godlike in his armor with shafts of sunlight shining over him. "Son of Watt, are you alright?"

"Th'fuck happened?" he gasped from his place flat on the ground, clutching the goose-egg on the crown of his bleeding head.

Thor bent at the waist, pulled him upright, and began patting the dust from his shoulders. "I am sorry, for it is the work of my brother, Loki. You did not have the misfortune of meeting him on his last sojourn to Midgard. He has a troubled heart, and believes that hurting my friends will bring him what he so yearns for. Come, the lady Natasha wakes!" He boomed the last, obviously trying to bolster John's spirits.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Tosh," Clint was moaning over Natasha's faintly stirring body. He didn't even look up as John and Thor came nearer. She muttered something in Russian and raised her arms for Clint to pull her up, hanging off of his shoulder and rubbing her eyes as though waking up from a long nap. John could relate.

There was a bang down the corridor, and John finally looked around. Some sort of bunker, not underground but definitely isolated. Metal interior, built for durability. What else? High windows. Prison? Maybe, but prisons were usually brick. "You guys alright down there?" Tony. He was the banging, landing his suit. Neat, John hadn't had the chance to see it close-up yet. Bruce wouldn't be far behind, either, though hopefully not his greener half. "Thor, I think Steve could use a hand with your brother, hey?"

"I'm on my way!" Thor bellowed back, hurrying in the direction of Tony's shouting.

As his footsteps faded and the clunky metallic steps of the Iron Man suit neared, John turned to Clint. "How long were we...under?" he asked vaguely.

"Eight weeks," replied Clint as though he'd been counting the days, still closely watching Natasha. "I don't care what Thor says, I'm putting an arrow through that bastard's brain for what he did to you." This he directed more toward Natasha, who was already trying to shake herself into alertness but still weaving slightly. Again, John could relate. His head was killing and everything was a little fuzzy around the edges.

Tony, in his full Iron Man regalia, came around the corner and raised his mask. "Hey guys, everyone mentally present and accounted for? Where's Little Big Man?" he asked. His voice was casual, but he shot John and Natasha a concerned look from the corner of his eye. If it were that visible, he really had to be upset.

"I think he's tearing apart the control room," Clint answered, still closely inspecting Natasha's pupils. "Doc, are you okay? Can you see if Nat has a concussion?"

"Dude, the guy was just hit with Mjölnir, _come on_."

"Shut _up_, Tony!"

"_Both of you shut up, I'm fine_," Natasha growled, still rubbing her head but standing on her own two feet. "Anyone care to explain how Loki got the spear again? I thought Thor got rid of that thing."

Before the conversation could run away from him, John raised his hands and asked, "Hold on, who's Loki? The dark-haired bloke with the crazy smile and blue demon-eyes?" His head painfully throbbed and he winced, missing the dumbstruck looks on the others' faces.

"His eyes were blue?" Tony asked. "You're sure? You two are the only ones who've gotten a close enough look at him."

After a moment's thought, Natasha nodded. "Yeah, they were definitely blue. Just like Clint's last time. Either Loki's gotten really good at his illusions, or he's possessed too," she said. There was a weight of certainty in her voice, and they set off in the direction Thor had gone to investigate. It wasn't very far to walk before they found Thor and the man who'd allegedly brainwashed him, now sitting huddled in a corner like a lost and terrified child. His eyes were no longer blue, but dark green and bloodshot. Thor was sitting beside him, a thick arm around his thinner shoulders.

"This is the work of Thanos," Thor said in his deep, grave voice. "He controlled the Chitauri army by threatening my brother and enticing him with impossible promises of power." As he explained, Loki bowed his head to stare at the space between his feet. "He knows of his wrongdoings, and now wishes for protection."

Tony aimed both of the repulsors in his palms at Loki. "How about we hear it from him, huh?" he demanded.

They watched as Loki's eyes slowly roved up and flickered brightest blue for only a moment, then red, and he shuddered as though fighting a violent illness. Dark purple circles bruised the spaces under his eyes, but the rest of his face was completely bloodless under a thin sheen of sweat, and his hands trembled like an addict's. The tips of his fingers were gray. The doctor in John started drawing diagnoses from his collected symptoms, though of course he had no idea if the illnesses of humans and those from - wherever Thor and Loki were from - were the same.

"Thanos courts Death," whispered Loki. "He knows that to attack Earth is to walk the same path, and that is why he began his quarrel with humanity. But first..." He made an attempt to stand, and winced when Tony stepped nearer with his repulsors charging. "He used me, my desires to see Thor humiliated and his throne taken, to experiment on Midgard first with the Chitauri, test your weaknesses. I have been used again merely because to use the same tool twice is simpler. Does this information satisfy you, or are you going to kill the messenger?" he sneered.

"Pipe down, Pull-Ups," spat Clint with his arms crossed before turning to Thor. "Where's the Captain?"

"He has gone to fetch the Hulk," he explained just before a roar echoed far off. He looked down at Loki with tenderness and despair clearly etched on his face before turning back to the group. "My friends, we cannot abandon my brother to Thanos's vengeance, even in spite of all he has done. Please, I beg for you to show him mercy."

Clint was already reaching for an arrow. "I think the people who've been possessed by this asshole should decide, and I say he dies. Tasha?" he said viciously.

"I'd like to kill him," agreed Natasha. "Then again I'm an assassin, I kill people for a living, It's kind of a biased opinion."

They looked at John, who felt his stomach clench painfully. He remembered the destruction of New York, and the death of his cousin, and tried to remind himself that all of this was the fault of the man before him. He wasn't a very nice man at all. But it was nearly impossible to think about Loki as objectively as John might have done with the cabbie or Moriarty, not with Thor beside him looking so upset and afraid. All John could see was a younger brother who had made an irreparable set of mistakes, and an older brother desperate to protect him. "My sister's an alcoholic. She killed someone in a car accident. A few someones, actually, and even though she felt terrible about it she kept drinking. But she's my sister. I would do anything to keep her safe if someone were after her, especially if that someone had been the one who put the bottle to her lips in the first place. That doesn't mean she deserves to die, does it?" he asked weakly, voice suddenly hoarse.

"John, this _little shit_nearly destroyed Manhattan and tried to take over the world," Tony reminded him, but lowered his hands. "But, you're the babysitter, Daddy says we have to listen to you once in a while." Thor was beaming tearfully, and even though they tried to hide it behind their anger at being possessed, Clint and Natasha looked slightly relieved, if only because they wouldn't have the sorrow of a Thunder God on their hands.

John stared at Loki as he spoke. "Everyone deserves a second chance. _Only_a second chance. If he goes astray again, I'll leave his punishment to you, Clint."

There was murderous rage behind the young god's dark green eyes, even as he nodded his understanding of John's threat.

Thor somberly said, "I know how he shall be punished. And protected."


	7. Chapter 7

Thor pulled his brother to stand and grasped both of his shoulders to keep him still. Loki stared, wide-eyed, at his brother as he began to speak in his booming, golden voice. With some sort of other-world manipulation John was too dazed to recognize, golden armor materialized across Loki's chest along with a golden-horned helm on his head.

"Loki, your crimes against Asgard and Midgard are vast. Everywhere you go, destruction follows. Even now, under the thumb of Thanos and faced with the kindness of my human friends, you do not offer a word of thanks or humility. As heir to the throne of Asgard and your elder, I hereby take your armor." He reached up and tore one of the golden horns from Loki's head; even as his younger brother cried out in protest, it vanished mid-air like smoke. "I take your powers, just as Odin Allfather once took mine as punishment for your wrongdoing."

"No, Thor-!" The second horn was taken with another scream of despair.

"You shall live as a mortal, until such a time that you have redeemed yourself in the eyes of man." With a swipe of his enormous paw, the golden breastplates dissolved from Loki's armor just as his horns had. John watched in awe as Loki fell to his knees and cried in anguish. Dropping to a kneel before his brother, Thor grasped his shoulder. "Have faith, brother. It is not so bad to be human, and I shall remain by your side until Asgard is in need of me."

Loki sobbed furiously and beat at his knees with clenched fists, very closely resembling a child in the throes of a violent fit. He looked strangely small in all the ways he had once been menacing. "I did not think you capable of such cruelty!" he screamed through tears.

"And you ought to be glad I did not take your silver tongue as well!" With an apologetic look at those around as if to silently say 'Little brothers are such a pain, right?' Thor brought Loki to his feet once more. "It would do well to find Banner and the Captain now, and leave us to discuss my brother's fate in privacy, would it not?" he said pointedly.

Immediately John turned to leave, eyes trying very hard to roll back into his head and knock him back out at the sudden movement, not waiting for Clint or Natasha. An unsettling sense of dread pooled in the pit of his stomach as it hit him that he had been under some malicious force's control for eight weeks. What had he done at that Thanos' bidding? He recalled seeing Natasha wringing an old man's neck without a second of thought; had he done the same, or more?

"Always assume you did the absolute worst, it makes the truth a lot nicer," said Clint, predicting John's uncertainty. "I killed other agents, people I liked, people I worked with."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "'s not like I could help it, could I?"

"No, no, I mean..." John gestured helplessly, and his hands left fleshy trails in his aching eyes. "Why me? It's not like I've been around long enough to know any government secrets." In actuality, he knew precisely four government secrets, two of which would make even Mycroft's hair curl, but he was going on a limb in guessing that this Thanos character had no interest in the United States' defense strategies, and wanted to know more. _I need more data._

Clint shrugged again, looking more irritated with John's line of questioning every moment. "You'll have to ask King of the Shits, John, I dunno, let's just get Banner some pants and get out of here," he sighed like a fed-up teenager.

After Tony did a quick scan of the building he led the way to Bruce and Steve, who were in the smoking remains of a control room now filled with smashed computer equipment. Bruce, shining with sweat and still breathless from his apparent rampage, was just fastening the button on a pair of jeans Steve provided when they came in. "John!" he practically shouted, stumbling forward and hugging him. "Hey, man! You okay?"

To be frank, John was taken aback for a long awkward moment before bringing up his hands to return the embrace. "Yeah, yeah, I'm okay." He'd been working with SHIELD for over ten months - a year, actually, as he would figure out later, but his mind was still eight weeks behind - and though the team had shown him only respect and kindness, especially with the webcam and helping him train, they had never shown such open affection with him as Bruce was showing now. Even if he was sweaty and shirtless and smelled a bit ripe, John was grateful for his friendship. "Thanks for coming to get me," he added.

Steve was grinning from ear-to-ear when they stepped away from one another, and clapped John affectionately on the back while Bruce turned to talk to Natasha and Clint. "Welcome back, soldier. Guys, Natasha-" She glared at the exception and he gulped apologetically. "-we probably want to vacate this area in case of any noxious fumes. Tony, is Loki properly contained?"

"I'd say so," snorted Tony, and he explained what Thor had done when Steve looked puzzled. John listened with only half an ear, starting to feel tired and getting dizzier by the minute. Considering that he'd been clocked in the head by a Norse god, he figured that a concussion was definitely not out of the question. He would have to check on Natasha when they got back to the tower as well, even if Clint had clearly agonized over hitting her only just hard enough to snap out of the trance.

By the time they were all gathered in the narrow corridor and had retrieved Thor and Loki from the other room, John felt queasy and had to blink against even the dim lighting of the bunker. It wasn't entirely uncommon for a concussed person to hallucinate, especially in a dim bunker with everyone around casting shadows, but then he turned his head and could have sworn he saw... Well, it didn't matter what he saw, he was a bit bonkers, anyway, and started staggering toward the vision without making the conscious decision to do so. The dark shape vanished around a corner with a rustle of heavy fabric that screamed at him right out of his darkest dreams, and just as suddenly as John saw it, it may as well have never existed.

He propped himself against the wall with one elbow and waited with his head bowed until he felt Steve grasp his shoulder. "Think I have a concussion; I'm hallucinating," he mumbled, and rubbed his eyes. There wasn't anything Steve could say to confirm or deny his claim, but he kept a hand on John's shoulder to make sure he didn't run off again before they got to the jet - since when did SHIELD give the, a jet? John had to protect his eyes from the intense afternoon sun, but he gathered that they were in the desert from what he saw of the ground.

Bruce checked his pupils in the softer lighting on the jet and gave a low whistle. "Oh, man, he fucked you _up_. You're definitely not sleeping tonight, sorry John. Tasha, come here, let me look at you too..." John's eyes drifted hazily to the other side of the jet's cramped belly and found Loki strapped into the seat beside Thor's. He was looking around with wide eyes, as though everything had changed colors now that he was mortal, and straining to stay as close to his brother's side as possible. It had to be frightening, being as close to immortal as one could be for hundreds - if not thousands - of years, and then suddenly being turned into something that could be as easily destroyed as a human.

At least Tony, Bruce, and Steve offered to stay up with him that night. Natasha was in the clear to sleep so long as Clint woke her every two hours or so. Tony was almost as excited as a kid to stay up all night, even after John reminded him that concussed people couldn't have alcohol. "Let's have movie night!"

"Just as long as it isn't Die Hard."

"Actually, I was thinking Mission Impossible, but now that you mention it-"

"No, come on, Tony," sighed Steve. "Can't we watch something else? Action movies are only good to a certain extent."

That, however, had given John an idea that he couldn't dismiss. It reminded him of a night three years ago, after he'd just moved into the Baker Street flat and he'd called a blog post Diamonds Are Forever. "We could have a Bond night," he suggested.

Tony briskly clapped his hands and jumped out of his seat. "Doctor's orders, guys! We're watching Bond! Good thing I have the whole collection. I mean it would take approximately 45 hours and 36 minutes to watch them all, but we can get through the good ones tonight! JARVIS, we need popcorn and booze! And a soda pop for the concussed man! And strippers, lots of strippers, at least four strippers!"

"_Tony!_" Steve looked absolutely scandalized.

"Fine, _dancers_, whatever makes you feel better, Cap."

The blond man muttered something about that not being what he meant, but JARVIS seemed to have either been programmed with common sense or not been programmed with the ability to order strippers, because they never showed. There were cookies, though, with the popcorn, booze, and soda, so that bolstered Tony's bad mood, and Bruce kept him from drinking too much. It was nice, after nearly a year of working with SHIELD - and there had been far more incidents than he could recollect where Earth's Mightiest Heroes needed an outside party to step in and take control - to be taken care of by the people he had invested so much time looking after.

In a few days he was back to rights, Natasha much sooner, but no one was nearly as damaged from the last eight weeks than Loki. He languished in Stark Tower, never leaving Thor's apartment for longer than absolutely necessary and flinching away from the slightest attention shown by anyone but his brother. Mortality suited him ill, but after reading his file John had to admit it was the perfect punishment. The germs and bacteria of the human world, combined with his already vulnerable state because of whatever Thanos had done to him, gave him a nasty flu that lasted over a week; John and Bruce took turns looking after him because Thor knew nothing of Midgardian illness. In all respects and purposes, he was every bit the little ass Tony and Clint made him out to be, but behind his furious rants and lies John could see self-hatred, a terrified child crouched in the shadows of his eyes, when his fever reached its peak just before breaking. Only when he brought it up later would Bruce admit he'd seen it too.

"Why did he choose us to possess?" John asked once Loki could venture out into Stark Tower again, even thinner and paler than before. "You had access to all of Stark Tower, and yet you only took me and Natasha."

Loki shrugged, idly flipping through the pages of a book without reading a word. He looked very strange in Thor's hand-me-down Midgardian clothes, not just because he swam in them. "When I controlled the Tessaract, I took only those who would serve my cause," he mumbled. "I do not presume to know the deeper machinations of Thanos' insanity. Though, if I had to venture a guess, I would say he took the weakest of you. The assassin, softened by childish love, and the cripple without a crutch." He grinned wickedly over the top of his book as John glowered; it was a game he liked to play, pretending to tell the truth until bare teeth gave away the lie.

"You remind me of my friend," said John as passively as if he were discussing the weather. "The crutch, I guess, according to your metaphor. He was a younger brother too. Sometimes, for his work, he could invent whole lifetimes in a matter of seconds and act it out like a play right in front of me. I mean, he literally became another person."

"What bearing has that on being a younger brother?" sneered Loki, though he looked as if he immediately regretted rising to John's level.

John smiled. "His brother was shit at impressions. Sometimes he would come to visit, and Sherlock - my friend - would answer the door as, I dunno, a wig salesman - or once a woman in full makeup and everything - and refuse to break character until his brother left all flustered and red in the face."

Two spots of color appeared high on Loki's cheeks but he didn't budge a single iota of attention away from the book in his hand. John wasn't certain if he noticed the book was upside-down - or, for that matter, if Norse gods-turned-mortal could even read English.


	8. Chapter 8

Three weeks later, Loki's dismal and volatile moods took a shift for the better when he left Stark Tower for the first time and returned with a stray cat - which he had clearly chased halfway across the city for the amount of grime and scratches - in his arms. He named her Sleipnir, which made Thor look unspeakably sad, but after he brought her home his disposition became much more tolerable. Chasing Sleipnir around the tower got him out of Thor's apartment (somehow the cat transcended elevators), and inevitably finding her curled up on someone else's bed forced him to civilly interact with the people he lived with. More often than not he got a black eye for his trouble, especially if Sleipnir had found her way to Clint or Tony's room, though there was the time when Natasha broke his nose for saying something off-color and John had to reset it.

"_I WILL DESTROY EVERYTHING YOU EVER LOVED, YOU FOUL EXECRATION!_" he'd bellowed after the crack, eyes streaming, and John was completely hysterical for at least four minutes. That night he found Sleipnir had used his pillow as a litter box, and admitted he'd deserved it. It had just been such a Sherlock sort of thing to yell, John hadn't been able to help his reaction.

The evening dinners John had grown fond of became an awkward affair yet again. Thor practically had to wrestle his brother up to Tony's apartment every night, and after Sleipnir came into the picture the cat had to be banned from the table to avoid aggravating Bruce's allergies. Having his pet around was apparently the only thing that made life tolerable; Tony called her Slippy one night and Loki almost tore his arm off. But that was beside the point, because within a month of Loki becoming mortal he'd started twelve food fights around the dinner table, and guess who was in charge of getting everything back under control? John ended more than one night with mashed potatoes dripping from the end of his nose and in a bad temper.

John went on his first attempt at recruiting for the Avengers Initiative a few months later but it came to no fruition. Fury said it was a common thing for targets to turn down offered positions, especially if they never wanted to be heroes in the first place or came upon the responsibility by chance, but it was still disappointing. The brothers and their friend in the trench coat hadn't exactly been polite about turning him down, either; the shorter of the brothers told him to _Suck my balls, man_, and flipped him the middle finger, before they climbed into their clunky old car and blasted Judas Priest until he left.

When he returned from Minnesota it was Tony's birthday, and Stark Tower was in an uproar of celebration. The building was filled with people John had never seen before, and he seriously doubted that Tony actually liked a single one of them. But they were all fellow millionaires that he was pitching his newest source of renewable energy at, while subsequently getting them so roaring drunk that they would probably agree if he announced the planet was cubic.

He found almost everyone he cared about on the roof despite the chilly weather, Bruce nursing a glass of wine and laughing at something Steve had just said, while Clint tried to shoot an empty wine bottle off his bow. John had seen his friends in both their super-suits and casual wear, but only rarely had the chance to catch them at black-tie occasions like this. Bruce especially was reluctant to own anything too fancy, since there was always the chance of shredding it, so John found himself staring a bit longer than was probably acceptable; his face flushed red when Steve said something, and Bruce turned and smiled shyly at him.

"Have I missed the fun?" asked John, picking a glass of unidentified liquor from a passing tray before joining the others' little circle. They split apart to make room for him. He was struck with a strong sense of belonging that he hadn't experienced since the army. There had been camaraderie with Sherlock, certainly enough, but somehow or another John had always felt like an outsider to the detective's brilliance, his faithful _blogger_. Here, he was one of the team, he was a brother-in-arms, even though there was nothing remotely extraordinary to set him apart.

"The only fun to be had at a Tony Stark birthday party is drinking, so you're on the right track," Bruce said with a fond roll of his eyes and a sympathetic pat on the arm for Steve. The taller man smiled ruefully. Even when Thor had managed to smuggle Asgardian mead down to Earth he'd been unable to get drunk any sooner than he would have gotten alcohol poisoning. John didn't feel sorry enough to forgo a large sip of his drink.

Even if he couldn't enjoy drinking, Steve suggested a drinking game to pass the time until they could sleep - for such a hi-tech facility, the walls of Stark Tower were abysmally thin. It was pretty simple: everyone picked a color. John picked blue. If someone wearing blue passed by, John had to take a shot. If someone wearing blue and red - Steve's color - passed, Steve and John had to finish their drinks. If, without any prior encouragement, someone wearing blue approached John, and in the course of the conversation John managed to get them to say everyone else's color, everyone had to finish their drinks. Purple was apparently "in" that week, and John apparently wasn't the only one who thought Bruce looked good in a suit, because within half an hour the scientist was swaying and giggling. John himself was feeling pleasantly fuzzy around the edges, having just had a conversation about the Double Rainbow video with a lovely girl in a blue cocktail dress, and so decided it was time for bed.

Slinging Bruce over his shoulder, John shuffled to the private elevator (let Tony kill him later) and waved goodbye to the others, who were now joined by Thor and singing. "Can you hold your own weight at all?" he laughed when Bruce nearly knocked them both into the wall.

"Mm-mm." Judging by the face buried in his neck, that was a no.

With only some minor trickery and one poked eye they managed to get to Bruce's apartment intact. John had only been there once, early on after the mission with Clint and Natasha. It was just as spacious as Tony's but intimate and crowded. It reminded John of the Baker Street flat despite being big enough to hold it twice, if not three times over. By then Bruce had found his clumsy feet and was tripping his way toward the bedroom, giggling at some joke he didn't feel the need to share with the rest of the class, and John followed to make sure he didn't accidentally brain himself on a pile of books. "Was that a snake in the corner?" he asked warily.

Bruce giggled anew and reached back for John's sleeve. "No, tha'was a lizard." He was surprisingly coherent for how drunk he was. At least alcohol was a suppressant and there was no fear of the Other Guy making an appearance. "His name's...Larry."

"Larry the lizard, how quaint." By then Bruce had flopped onto the bed and John, being the responsible doctor he was, started helping get his shoes off. Years of experience with drunk mates in uni (leaving out all the times he got pissed himself) had taught him that the most reasonable amount of clothes to get off were the shoes, belt, tie, and only the shirt if they were wearing a t-shirt underneath. Comfortable and no risk of any embarrassing nudity. Though John was tempted to take a picture; he had the feeling a drunken Bruce Banner was something Tony would regret never seeing in his life.

Comfortably settled without shoes or belt Bruce lay giggling sleepily as John tugged the duvet out from under him and drew it up to his chin. "John, I think I'm drunk," he sighed.

"I think you're drunk too; your breath stinks."

That only seemed funnier. Bruce took hold of John's wrist and held him, bent awkwardly at the waist, in place by his head. Then he leaned up and brushed a kiss to the corner of John's mouth. John stiffened in surprise and pulled away. Bruce was moaning miserably the moment his head hit the pillow. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

"Hey, it's alright," John quickly dismissed, his heart sinking painfully as he straightened the duvet and smiled. "You're far too good for me anyway." A sound in the vague middle ground between laughter and crying came from the bed. John ruffled his hair and told him, "Have JARVIS call for me if you need help," before leaving.

Maybe it was because he was slightly drunk himself or the party music was still booming up from the lower levels, but John found the usual path to his room uncomfortable and disorienting. The lift seemed to tremble on its way down, or maybe it was just him. He felt ashamed of himself for being so shocked by something as innocent as a drunk man kissing him - it wasn't the first time one of John's friends had done so - but after the long elevator trip he decided that it had to do with the atmosphere. Bruce's apartment reminded him of Baker Street and Bruce's drunkenness reminded him of so many nights spent taking care of Sherlock in one state of disarray or another. Whether Irene had drugged him or he was having one of many "danger nights" (the term Mycroft coined when Sherlock was only a tender fifteen), John had had the same intimacy and closeness with his friend at least twice a month. Any one of those times could have ended the same way as it had in Bruce's darkened bedroom. Some nights, John couldn't have been entirely sure he hadn't wanted it to end that way. It was a rare and fleeting sense of unease that left John wondering if he was quite as confident in his sexuality as once believed. Sherlock died, of course, before John had had a chance to sort out if his conflict had been something more than passing doubt or an early mid-life crisis.

If there were anyone in the world John should have felt safe exploring these feelings with, it ought to have been Bruce. He was kind, infinitely patient, and would understand John's fears about about such an adjustment, probably even make it all easier because of his compassionate heart, and yet the thought made him feel faintly ill. It wasn't that he didn't like Bruce or couldn't appreciate the idea of a relationship with him - he meant it when he said Bruce was too good for him - but Bruce's unique circumstances made the chances of breaking his heart infinitely more likely. The danger of losing control made giving in to pure physical attraction out of the question. Bruce made connections based solely on character and emotional attachment, and if John's crisis was just that, a brief crisis of sexuality and nothing more, he feared his friendship with Bruce - and by extension the rest of the team - could be compromised.

By the time all these thoughts had accumulated into an acute pressure behind John's eyes he'd undressed and climbed into bed. Despite being tired out from the trip to Minnesota and the party, he lie awake half the night, fretting. When he finally fell asleep at dawn, he concluded that unless things got really, properly awkward, he would take the coward's way, pretending the whole mess hadn't happened and hoping to whatever was out there that Bruce would be too drunk to remember it. He did not have a pleasant night's sleep.

Everyone was glassy-eyed and nursing hangovers the next morning, with the exception of Steve, who couldn't get drunk; Thor, who was under the impression that Midgardian booze was a beverage for children; and Loki, who had spent the party hiding in Thor's apartment, out of fear that he would be recognized and rendered helpless to protect himself without his powers. John made the rounds of each apartment to see if he needed to pop out for aspirin or sport drinks before meeting with Fury about another possible recruit living in New York. Some laughably young kid who'd been bitten by a radioactive spider or something: likely to be another dead end, if John said so himself. Bruce squinted thoughtfully at him for a long moment as though something was nagging at the back of his mind, but John smiled and chatted his ear off like usual, until he seemed to dismiss the thought as nothing more than a drunken dream. John wasn't sure if he was glad or guilty for it.


	9. Chapter 9

Weeks passed and everything returned to normal - or, at least, as close to normal as a skyscraper full of emotionally stunted superheroes could get. Spiderguy, or whatever his name was, joined the Initiative but already lived with his girlfriend and had a full-time job, and somehow his identity was still secret to the general public. Really, though, John thought it was because Tony had laughed himself silly the first time the kid came to Stark Tower and told him to run home before his bedtime.

That earned him a slap from Natasha later, who already chose the oddest times to be maternal toward them but had been acting mysteriously more so lately. Even John wasn't safe from her lioness-like protective attitude when he was roughed up on an assignment a month or so after the party. Maybe she'd finally warmed up to them all and not just Clint. Either way, when one afternoon they were watching a Disney Pixar movie - Steve's choice - in Tony's apartment, and JARVIS came on to announce Mycroft Holmes was downstairs to see John, Natasha shot him an odd look and asked if anything was wrong with a quirk of her eyebrows. He shrugged back and stood. "I'll just go and see, then. No, don't pause it, I've seen this one. Back in a tick, hopefully..."

He felt anxious on the elevator going down. That morning upon waking up he had felt a wave of cold dread fill his stomach; even if it had lasted less than a second he'd been disoriented by it all morning. Maybe it was just because a lot of men he'd been in the army with were fiercely superstitious; several of John's friends would feel ominous going into battle without a certain pair of socks or a trinket in their pocket for luck. More than one soldier had carried a rabbit's foot in his or her duffel. John had always prided himself on not letting superstition rule his head, but suddenly found himself wishing for something lucky to latch onto.

Mycroft looked as well as could be expected of a man forced to be grateful his brother had committed suicide before exposing any more government secrets. In very nearly three years - where had the time gone? - he'd lost what looked like two stone. It didn't suit him; his face had been long and empty enough. Still, he smiled that snakelike smile of his and hooked his brolly over an arm to shake hands. "New York has treated you very well indeed, John, you're positively aglow. I hope my old pal Director Fury hasn't given you too much trouble."

Fighting the urge to snort at the idea of Mycroft being pals with anyone, let alone Nick Fury, John simply smiled a generic response and invited him up to his apartment for a cup of tea. "You must be tired from your flight. Not to mention it seems you've walked here, though Lord knows you could use the exercise." He couldn't help throwing in the last bit as a jab, just to relish the withering look on Mycroft's face like when Sherlock would do it.

"How very funny, John," he replied with the same squinty smile as always. It was nice to see some things never changed. John couldn't help chuckling as he placed a mug of the expensive tea Harry habitually sent on the kitchen table for him. "How long has it been since we last spoke? Surely it couldn't have been any time after Sherlock's...passing. For the obvious reasons, of course."

_The obvious reason being that you helped_, John wanted to snap out of reflex, but then he remembered that Sherlock had not, in fact, killed himself from shame or depression. He had killed himself to save John. "So I would assume something's come up, then, or you need me for something," he said, voice no longer as polite.

Mycroft gave a sigh that seemed to drag his whole body down. "Yes, I'm afraid I come bearing bad news. It seems that your sister has died," he said.

The tension in the air couldn't have been more tangible if Mycroft had slapped him. John sucked a breath and stiffened in his chair, disbelief being the first sensation to fall over him like a blanket. "But I just spoke to her yesterday." The words came from numb lips before he knew he was going to speak.

"She was found by a neighbor earlier this morning - last night for you - who hadn't seen her leave for work. They found her in the kitchen but she had been dead for hours already. Pancreatitis, they think. There hasn't been an autopsy done yet. I'm terribly sorry for your loss."

Even numb with shock and grief, John's mind began whirring over what he knew about Pancreatitis. Caused by drinking too much, obviously, but acute attacks didn't present themselves until hours after consummation of alcohol. Harry had seemed perfectly normal on the phone and completely sober - he knew from experience how she sounded on the phone when even tipsy - so she had to have started binging immediately after they talked, or a few days before. Sometimes the symptoms didn't show up for days, either. Harry always plugged in her mobile in the kitchen before bed, and if John spoke to her at three in New York it had been nine in Britain.

He didn't need an imagination for the scenario to build itself around the facts. Harry and John talked for half an hour, until nine-thirty. She plugged in her phone, had either one last drink or binged (depending on her blood-alcohol content when the labs came back), and went to bed. Within two hours she woke up with acute stomach pains so strong that she knew there was something terribly wrong. She got up to call for help but collapsed just inside the kitchen, lost consciousness, and died. It wouldn't have been quick, or painless, but at least she'd hopefully been unconscious for the worst of it.

After several quiet minutes John remembered that Mycroft was still sitting two feet away and staring. He swallowed. "I suppose this means I'm needed to sort out her things," he rasped, voice shaking and hands steady.

The other man nodded. "I'm afraid so. There's no one else."

"Right, of course, she and Clara never..." he trailed off and pressed fingertips to the hollows of his eyes. "I need to pack some things. I'm almost certain you're not in America just for me, so if you have somewhere to be, you can. Go, that is. You can go. After you finish your tea, I mean, don't...please don't waste it."

The other man dutifully rose the mug to his lips and sipped. Once John had shuffled to his room and started packing, JARVIS's cool voice began to speak. "John, Tony and, frankly, everyone else would like to know if you're quite alright."

Mycroft's lack of reaction upon glancing out into the kitchen told John that it was only audible in his room. "Um, yes, quite alright. Just...let them know I've been called away," he replied.

"Tony and the others wish you safe travels, John."

He sighed. "Of course they do. Thanks, JARVIS."

"My pleasure, John. Remember to take an umbrella; there's a ninety percent chance of rain in London tomorrow."

Another sigh seemed appropriate.

"John and Mister Holmes have left the premises, Tony. He was carrying what appeared to be a duffel and a garment bag."

"Thanks JARVIS," Tony called up before turning to the assembled group around the coffee table. "So, garment bag. That means either a wedding or a funeral."

"But no one hears about weddings at the last minute like that," said Steve, looking around at the group with an unspoken, "...right?" to the others. Bruce nodded and he relaxed.

Natasha was already on her phone looking up deaths with the name Watson attached. "Too soon for any newspapers to pick up, must have been really recent or there weren't any suspicious circumstances," she reported after a few minutes.

"So who do we know that John knows who could die of natural causes? Clint!"

His eyes went buggy at being so suddenly addressed. "Um...grandparents?"

Tony made a face. "Won't say no, but he's at that iffy age where it could be parents, too. Thoughts, Thor?" He tossed a book-end at the big guy, who caught it with a dumbfounded expression.

"Perhaps a brother-in-arms?"

That was more widely received by the group. "Better, better, but I'm still not sure...he's been out of the army for over four years now, and never really talks about keeping in touch with his friends there, does he? Bruce, any ideas?"

He shook his head, mouth twisted thoughtfully. "Old girlfriend, maybe one he was still close to. Or an aunt or uncle. Though it still doesn't explain why the suit turned up to get him instead of just calling," he slowly brainstormed.

Beaming, Tony gestured at Thor until he tossed the book-end at Bruce, who only just managed to catch the awkward thing against his chest. "Holmes! I mean it's a common name, but what are the chances of knowing two unrelated guys named Holmes? So it must have been...wait...who must it have been? Never mind, that didn't make sense. But Holmes has something to do with it!"

"You're all such idiots," Loki snickered from the back of the room. Everyone with their backs turned were spinning in place to face him and he sneered. "It's obvious if you'd just pay attention."

Natasha's eyes narrowed. "And what should we have been paying attention to, pray tell?" she asked, voice laced with venom.

"Well, if you all had been listening outside the door, as I had, perhaps you would know who went and died on your precious agent. But, alas, I am the lone champion of this sacred information, and can't seem to remember it for the sickeningly mortal life of me! Perhaps something could...jog my memory." Dark eyes flitted up to Thor, hard with malice, and the elder god cringed.

"Loki, I cannot return your powers to you."

Skinny shoulders shrugged and somewhere out of sight Sleipnir mewled. "Then I cannot tell you what you so crave to know, dear _brother_," he said with false sympathy.

Steve huffed and rolled his eyes. "Hey, JARVIS, can you _call_John?" he shouted, never really having got the hang of how to talk to AI. "Clint, get His Highness out of here."

Just as the archer had successfully dragged a kicking and screaming Loki out into the hall and locked the door to Tony's apartment, John's voice crackled over the intercom. "Steve? What's up? I'm sort of in a cab."

"Yeah, I know, sorry to be a bother, John, but I was just wondering if everything was okay. You sort of left in a hurry, and someone noticed you were carrying a garment bag. You alright?" replied Steve, as though he were having a Sunday afternoon chat with the neighbors over his white picket fence while his two-point-five kids and Labrador retriever played in the sprinkler.

John's reply was a long time coming. "Yeah...yeah, I'm okay. I just need to go back to England for maybe. Um. Maybe a week or two. I, uh, don't really want to say much right now. It's not work, it's...personal. Okay? Tell everyone I'm sorry and not to tear the place down withou- yes, Mycroft I'm coming! Jesus, bloody fucking bollocks..." The last bit was grumbled under his breath before the connection blipped out.

They all sat staring up at the ceiling for a few moments, as though somehow expecting John to fall through the intercom speakers and spell out what was wrong. Finally Natasha sighed as though they were all being idiots and said, "You know we could just _go_to London, right?" and patiently waited for the other shoe to drop.

"Well," Tony said dumbly before clapping his hands. "Anyone else feel like a trip?"

It wasn't a surprise that Harry didn't have any friends. She'd always been more charismatic growing up, but she was a mean drunk, and much of her adult life had been spent in one state of drunkenness or another. Their parents had died in an accident while John was in uni, their grandparents years and years ago, and they had no aunts or uncles to speak of, other than Phil's parents who were also gone. John was alone. He knew that family was only blood and passed genes, knew that good friends were far more valuable than absent relatives, but he still felt heavy inside knowing the last of his family was gone.

He stood, not quite on his own for the few awkwardly-scattered coworkers, by Harry's graveside. It was a nice day, warmer and brighter than April ought to be. His hands were clasped at his front, his heart having sunk somewhere to the region behind them. Why couldn't they go back and start over? John could have been a better little brother, could have been there when the drinking started, could have forgiven her more easily. He wanted to go back to when things were easy. He wanted his sister back. This wasn't his life, standing alone at a graveside; he wanted his life back.

Then there was a hand on his shoulder, bodies around him somberly shrouded in black, and he wasn't so alone.


	10. Chapter 10

The team stayed on in London for a few days longer than John necessarily needed to take care of Harry's things. Most of it went into storage, like family things that he was too sentimental to be rid of quite yet, or to charity shops like her clothes and electronics. Clara showed up asking for some of the things Harry refused to give back in the divorce, and John let her have whatever she wanted. It didn't matter, not really. He didn't need to sell anything now that he had a good salary with SHIELD, and besides that...it just didn't matter.

Before they left the graveyard after Harry's brief funeral, Steve and Bruce went wandering around the outskirts looking at the flowers and monuments. John watched their progress from the edge of a bench, perched, almost poised to get up and run at a moment's notice. They were getting close to Sherlock's grave. Would they stop? Would they even see it? Why did it matter? Harry was dead and he was thinking of superheroes standing on his dead best friend.

They approached the grave, went right up next to it, only two feet away, and passed it without a glance. John let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding and Tony sank onto the bench beside him. "You okay, Action Man?" he asked with an awkward pat to the back.

"I think I'll pull through," nodded John. He thought of something he ought to say, about Harry and how he missed her, even how they never really got along, but the words wouldn't come. There was no emotional outpouring to be had on a lovely day in a cemetery. Instead he tilted his head toward Steve and Bruce. "Sherlock's over there, you know." It had seemed like an alright thing to say at the time, but looking back it was actually extremely awkward and out of place.

Tony seemed to understand. "Do you wanna go over there?" he offered.

John started shifting to get up and do so, but for some reason a disturbing thought - _new grass has grown where the turned earth used to be_ - occurred to him out of the blue, and he had to sink back down with a faintly ill feeling in the pit of his stomach. "No, no I don't much feel like it today. Maybe another time. Dinner? I know a place." He was up and walking away before anyone could comment on the stiffness of his leg.

When he led the way into Angelo's the man himself went near-catatonic with shock before launching himself forward, hugging John so hard his back cracked and his feet were lifted off the floor. "Anything, John! Anything for you and your friends, on me! Come in, please, look at me jabbering on...Billy! Get a table!" It felt strange, eating in the same restaurant where he and Sherlock had on their first case, but also fitting in its own way. Natasha and Clint were huddled on their corner of the table like they were the only people in the restaurant, Tony and Bruce's conversation had drifted back into science territory that John didn't understand, and Thor was speculating the possibility of a mortal wielding Mjölnir "if his intentions be valiant enough to be worthy of its power." Loki sat quietly at the end of the table opposite the assassins, glaring around at everyone and picking at his bread.

John looked across the dining room at the table under the window, and saw two young girls sitting at Sherlock's favorite table. Their smiles were too wide and clothes too nice for a friendly meeting. The dark-haired girl's hand brushed the shorter girl's on top of the table; they both jerked away and laughed awkwardly. A date, a first date. A part of John wanted them to know how special that table was for firsts, but a stronger part of him figured they already knew, or soon would.

An idea occurred to John and he pulled out his mobile.

_To: Greg_  
_Have one of those inflatable _  
_mattresses?_  
_JW_

_A few minutes later:_

_From: Greg_  
_Yeah, but it'd take a few weeks_  
_to get to NYC, mate._

_He smiled._

_To: Greg_  
_I'm in London with friends._  
_JW_

_From: Greg_  
_What? Let me finish up at this_  
_scene and I'll get to Baker St_  
_with the mattress._

A surge of nostalgia and longing shot through John's chest, food going untouched as he stared down at his mobile. He hadn't realized how much he missed going to crime scenes with Lestrade. Looking back up at his friends, he suggested, "Listen, I know it isn't Stark Tower or anything, but I was wondering if you all wanted to stay at Baker Street tonight. I think I can manage making accommodations for everyone, as long as some people don't mind sharing sleeping space." There was his double bed upstairs, Sherlock's double downstairs, the sofa, Greg's inflatable double mattress, and he was certain Mrs. Hudson would let out her sofa for a few nights as well. When he explained the space and available accommodations most everyone seemed up for it. Tasha and Clint claimed the air mattress immediately, and Steve volunteered to take 221B's sofa. That left Thor and Loki to share Sherlock's room, and the awkward decision over who would share John's bed and who would go to Mrs. Hudson's.

"We could flip a coin," Bruce suggested, looking a bit uncomfortable and not meeting anyone's eyes.

Tony rolled his eyes. "I honestly do not give a shit who I sleep with, so I'll let you two little lovebirds figure it out and stop dancing around one another. I think I'm getting dessert. Anyone wanna share Tiramisu with me?"

He and Bruce looked up at one another at the same time before quickly darting their eyes away. Bruce volunteered to sleep in John's armchair instead, so Tony could have Mrs. Hudson's sofa and John could sleep in his own bed. It felt like cheating, but he didn't want things to be any more awkward than they already were.

The walk back to Baker Street made things easier with everyone talking and laughing (with the exception of Loki, who only seemed to find it funny when Clint accidentally walked ankle-deep into a puddle and laughed that creepily charming dry cackle of his), and halfway there John spotted Lestrade's car pulling up to the curb. "John!" he called, tucking a rolled-up inflatable mattress under his arm and grinning. "How are you? Parking's shit, mate, I couldn't find a spot anywhere closer. Are these them, then?" he asked with a vague gesture to the Avengers.

"Yeah, these are my friends," laughed John, turning to introduce everyone in person. Lestrade looked like a child whose favorite toys had just come to life before his eyes as he shook their hands and enthused about how great he thought the work they did was. It must have been a nice change from most police officers, who didn't like being undermined by untrained men and women in spandex costumes, because most of them quickly warmed to him.

Instead of dropping off the mattress and leaving he walked the rest of the way with them, chatting with John about his latest case. "Ronald Adair, son of an Earl or something. He was a decent enough bloke, going by his profile: did charity work, ran marathons, visited sick kids in the hospital; you wouldn't think anyone could possibly hate him enough to kill him, but the dog walker found him dead in his flat this morning. His door was locked from the inside, but the woman apparently had a spare key because he was out so much. We've taken her in for questioning, but her alibi checks out."

"No sign of forced entry?" John asked, though he knew that even Lestrade's least competent forensics (re: Anderson) could detect that.

"None at all. Poor bloke was just balancing his cheque-book, and someone pops him through the head with a small-calibre rifle. Who would do that?"

John shrugged. "He had a lot of money."

"Nothing was stolen."

That probably should have been surprising or puzzling, but John had spent eighteen months solving some of the strangest murders in the nation's modern history, so really all he felt was another puzzle piece presenting itself to him. Damn it all, but he was _interested_. "It could have been revenge," he reasoned slowly, rolling it over in his mind as a rich man might slowly savor a sip of expensive wine.

There was a smirk tugging at the corner of Lestrade's lips as he added, "It's really..._quite_ baffling, to be honest. I can't seem to wrap my head around it, a second opinion might not go amiss."

"I'm not him, Greg," said John in a carefully-restricted voice.

"I know. But you knew him best."

_You know my methods._

John fought back a shudder. He hadn't heard Sherlock talking in his head (he would swear on a Bible that he wasn't insane, but also would never, ever admit he was hearing things either) in at least six months, but now it was back. Probably the familiar surroundings. He heaved a sigh that made his whole chest inflate. "I'll have to see; I am entertaining seven people, after all."

"I'm sure they could entertain themselves for an hour or so," grinned Lestrade. He was like a teenager convincing his mate to sneak out of the house to meet girls. The nudge to John's arm with his made it all the more effective.

A bread roll smuggled out of Angelo's hit him in the back of the head. "Just go, John! We've been listening the whole time; golly, but you're like a kid being offered a trip to Disneyland!" Steve laughed.

After a bit more cajoling from the team, John finally gave in. They were close enough to the flat by then that he could hand over his spare key and point. Clint snatched them up and ran to the door first, shouting something about needing to piss, and John quickly grabbed the man nearest him, who happened to be Bruce. "If you can, make sure they don't break anything, yeah? And tell Mrs. Hudson I'll do her shopping in exchange for letting you all stay." He smiled and patted Bruce's arm before nodding at Lestrade. They turned back in the direction of his car; John desperately hoped the flat would be in one piece when he returned.

Going by pictures of the body, the Honorable Ronald Adair was a gambler. He had a callous on the inside of his left little finger - a sign of someone who frequently dealt cards - and poker chip cufflinks. There were four packs of playing cards in inconspicuous, but no less visible, spots around the spacious flat. A glass of vodka tonic sat beside Adair's right hand, with a small clump of brain matter floating unpleasantly on the surface. If John had to venture a guess, the shot was long-range rather than an intruder; the size and angle of the exit wound pinned it at about thirty feet away, give or take, and from a lower level than Adair. There was nothing to climb on outside the window, which was open, but when John positioned himself where Adair's eye-level ought to have been, he saw that a window of the complex across the street was perfectly aligned with his sight.

"Definitely a sniper, possibly some sort of air rifle if no one reported hearing a shot," John concluded. "Possibly gambling debts, I could find out who he owed if he kept a book right..." he rooted around one of the desk drawers and came up with a Moleskine account book, "here."

_Good, John. Very good._

Even if it was all in his head, John couldn't help feeling proud of himself, especially when there was no following _but you have missed everything important_. He flipped through the book and frowned. "Well. He didn't have any unsettled debts, though he did win over _twenty thousand pounds_ from a bloke called Basher a few weeks ago," he murmured, running a finger down the column of names and figures. "Most other of the figures are only a few hundred quid up to two thousand pounds, so either things with this bloke escalated very dramatically, or Adair knew he was going to win."

"You think he cheated?" asked Lestrade.

"That could be a motive, especially if this Basher character thought he had a good hand but didn't have the money."

The DI nodded. "We'll look into it right away. Thanks for the help, John, but I'll let you get back now."

John felt odd when he left the house and got on a bus bound for Baker Street. It had seemed so obvious that Adair was a gambler, and to look in the desk drawer for the log book, and yet Lestrade hadn't thought to look at Adair's fingers. There were probably a million other things Sherlock would have noticed with a single glance at the scene and Adair's body, but he had still done pretty well for himself, if he had to say so.

So wrapped up in his thoughts, John didn't notice Bruce sitting crouched in the alley beside 221 Baker Street, trying to catch his breath and contain the raging beast within. He didn't hear Mrs. Hudson crying in her flat while Tony tried to say something nice. He did, however, notice the man sitting bound and gagged on 221B's window seat, surrounded by two assassins, a demi-god, and his brother.

Natasha turned to look at John with murder in her stare, but all he had eyes for was the man. The streetlamp outside cast him in shadow until John's eyes adjusted. Dark tangled hair, blue-green eyes light as a blade, papery white skin...

_Sherlock._


	11. Chapter 11

"_You!_"

John didn't _faint_, exactly. It was more like when Sherlock fell, when his whole mind went gray and his muscles refused to hold him anymore. Within moments of realizing that Sherlock was the man tied and held down by his friends, John's legs turned to water. Arms as thick as tree branches (_Thor_, he thought vaguely) caught him and carried him like a rag-doll to the sofa. Pale eyes - Sherlock's eyes, _Sherlock_, but _how_ - drilled into his from across the room.

With what must have been one very rapidly improvised red rope (or something Natasha just carried with her, but John preferred not to think about that) Sherlock had been very uniquely bound. There was a loop around his waist, a loop around his neck, loops around each elbow, his left wrist was bound to his right hip on the front of his body, and his right wrist bound to the left hip in back. It was impossible for him to struggle or even move without the restraints pulling painfully at his shoulders. He said something that was muffled by the gag. John's heart raced.

"We heard the landlady scream and found _him_ on the landing," explained Clint, clearly furious. "He just walked in like he owns the place!"

Sherlock made another muffled attempt to speak; the corners of his mouth were already rubbed raw and on the verge of bleeding. If anything, he was probably trying to say "_I do own the place!_" It seemed like a very Sherlock thing to say.

Then John was laughing. Hysterics, the doctor in him supplied. The noises coming out of his throat weren't natural laughter; they were ugly, harsh, rasping sounds more akin to crying. When tears blurred his eyes he lost track of what, exactly, he was doing. It was that sweeping fear of losing control that stopped him. He sucked in a deep breath and was composed, standing, telling the others, "It's okay. You can go, I'll deal with him." They hesitated, clearly reluctant to leave him alone with a stranger, and John gestured to Sherlock. "He obviously isn't about to go anywhere, and I can handle myself. Where's Bruce? Someone ought to check on him."

There were a few more moments of uncertainty before Natasha and Clint left, and Thor retrieved Loki from his lurking in the kitchen to follow them. John remained in place only inches from the sofa before finally gathering the courage and stepping nearer. Sherlock's brow was furrowed in consternation, staring up at John with what he guessed was supposed to be a bored expression, but John could see the fear and exhaustion wearing at him.

"I'm going to take off the gag," he said slowly, trying not to let his voice shake the way it wanted to. "Please, don't bite me."

Once the strip of red cloth (_Oh my god this is Thor's cape!_) had been gently pulled from around Sherlock's mouth, he was swallowing and spitting and licking his raw lips. "Finally!" he rasped, voice much dryer than John expected. "For god's sake, John, untie me! I feel like my arms are going to-!"

He was cut off by John backhanding him across the face. Before he could regain his breath John hit him again; a fine trickle of blood slipped from his nose, and John plucked a tissue from the box on the coffee table to wipe it roughly away. It wasn't as if his shirt would be ruined, though. It was already dirty and rusty-brown with grime under the sun-bleached brown coat Sherlock was wearing. "I'm not going to untie you until _you_..." He choked on his own words with an unexpected surge of emotion. "..._explain yourself._"

Sherlock tried to lean forward but hissed in pain as his restraints pulled. "Lestrade should have shown you the recording," he panted, trying to lean back and loosen the pulling on his shoulders. His face was still tightly creased with discomfort no matter how he sat - John felt a strange sense of satisfaction. "I did it for you, for all of you, John, surely you know that now."

"Yes, Lestrade showed me the recording but that _still doesn't explain why you didn't tell me_," growled John back, pressing on Sherlock's shoulders in a new fit of anger. "Couldn't you trust me? Did you really think I was so _stupid_ you couldn't even..." The anger melted too easily into another shock of sorrow that crippled his words. He only allowed himself two sharp, gasping breaths before swiping his knuckles across his face and regaining composure.

The man in the chair swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing more visibly than it used to. He'd lost quite a bit of weight. "_John_," he croaked, and for several minutes that was all he seemed capable to saying. John could barely look at him for more than a second at a time, but every time he glanced he saw something new to fret over: a black eye forming where he'd recently been punched (by Natasha, judging by the size of the marks), a scabbed-over laceration on his scalp, light streaks cutting through the dust and grime on his neck like sweat or water had been dumped on his cleaner face, mottled bruises barely visible at the collar of his shirt and clearly descending toward his chest and stomach, stringy tangled hair, clothes grievously ripped and worn to fraying, new angry marks where the improvised ropes were chafing his skin...Sherlock was a complete mess. But he was alive.

"John...of _course_ I trust you," he finally said - not _trusted_, but trust in the present tense - with eyes wide, "but if I had revealed my secret to anyone other than those absolutely necessary to the cause, the chances of my being discovered - and you being killed - would have been astronomical. Your...performance...needed to be completely convincing. And if you hadn't actually - actually _mourned_ me, then I worried you might have been too..." He trailed off, staring into space as though it were a frequent occurrence. John tried not to let the anger overwhelm him into interrupting. instead he cleared his throat and Sherlock jerked back to attention. "I worried you might have been too happy. Relieved. If you had slipped up for even a second they would have known."

"Who's 'they'?"

"Moriarty's network. That's where I've been, tracking down the greatest criminal web known to man, full of spies and assassins and all sorts of generally unpleasant characters," he explained, and God, John missed his voice. Even sitting a foot away, John somehow still managed to miss him. "It was a disaster. Every time I broke one thread, a dozen more seemed to crop up. I thought I would die trying, but now...now it's just one man. I'm certain of it. And I've got him scared, John, he's going to make a mistake and then I'll have him!"

By the end of it Sherlock was shaking, frantic as everything he'd worked for suddenly came to a head, straining against his restraints and wincing as one of his shoulders stretched just a bit too far back. But John wasn't ready to untie him yet. "Who? Who're you after, Sherlock?" he asked.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran, dishonorably discharged from the military six months before you were invalided home, notorious gambler, and Moriarty's right-hand man. John, I'm losing sensation in my fingers, I might actually resort to begging if you don't untie me soon."

John grabbed the loop around his waist and tugged Sherlock closer. "You still haven't said why you didn't just take me with you, Sherlock."

Grimacing and squeezing his eyes shut, Sherlock gasped in a tight breath and swallowed again. "Because you have more to lose than I do!" he practically howled before John let go. "John, if you had gone with me you would have had to sever all ties with _everyone_, possibly indefinitely. You would have had to live isolated from your sister, your friends, your career. When it was just me, all you lost was that: _me_. Rather than your entire life. I couldn't do that to you, John, I couldn't tear you away from the city that gave you life after so long, I couldn't do it, I wasn't enough..." He pulled in a shuddering breath and twisted in place, movements jerkier and less controlled than before, laced with panic, and John rooted around the desk for a pair of scissors.

The moment the ties were loose Sherlock's wiry arms wormed their way around John's waist, his face burrowing almost painfully into his stomach. He didn't speak, and John didn't know what to say for a long time, so he just ran his fingers through Sherlock's dirty hair until he calmed down. "Sherlock, you were very brave," he said soothingly, even as frustration continued to buzz at the back of his skull. "But didn't you ever consider what would happen to _you?_ All the things you were protecting me from, you instead exposed yourself. You lost _your_ brother, _your_ friends, _your_ career, didn't you? And you were alone. You could have...you could have had me. We could have done it together."

"I could have lost you," Sherlock muttered, voice muffled in the front of John's suit. "The chances of you dying were exponentially higher if you had come with - what is so funny?" His spider-like hands fisted the back of John's jacket.

Briefly resting one hand on top of Sherlock's head, John pulled the lanky man up and back into the chair he'd recently been tied to. "Sherlock, I took a job with-"

"The Avengers Initiative, I know, I gathered as much from the assassin, the circus performer, and the Norse gods waiting in my sitting room," interrupted Sherlock. "Obviously, if I'd known you were going to take up with a ramshackle band of would-be heroes, I might have reconsidered taking you along."

His reluctance to admit to being wrong, his stubbornness, his easily-wounded pride, it was all so achingly familiar and just screamed to much of _home_ that John wanted to laugh or cry again. "You bloody idiot," he chuckled at Sherlock's indignant look. Reflexively he reached out a hand and placed it on Sherlock's bruised cheek. For a moment Sherlock shuddered, then he leaned into the contact. Just how long had he been alone? Since the very beginning? Even John had had people to fall back on.

"Molly helped me," rumbled Sherlock in his typical way. "She was my only link to news in London; every few months she would visit, bring me information, but toward the end when things got hairy I told her not to bother. All the information I needed was gained organically from then on. John..." Again, he trailed off, eyes falling closed as he leaned further into John's hand, even going so far as to sandwich John's hand between his cheek and his own hand. "I do hope you know...well, I mean to say...being...being without you...it...and for so long...it was..._not good_."

Despite the lump in his throat, John smiled. "I missed you too, you daft fool," he said fondly. Then he tugged his hand free and swallowed roughly. Things wouldn't be alright between them, not immediately, but he hoped that someday they could return to something resembling normal. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up and get everyone back inside. I guess I have a lot of explaining to do..."

Outside in the alley, Clint, Natasha, Thor, and Loki were gathered in a semi-circle around Bruce, who was still crouched against the wall. "You gonna be okay, big guy?" asked Clint. It had started to drizzle, and Loki was glaring up at the sky as though it had done him a most grievous misdeed. Bruce just sat against the wall with his eyes closed, flinching every time a raindrop hit him.

"Did you guys know who that was?" he asked between clenched teeth after a prolonged silence. "That was _Sherlock_. The guy who was supposed to be _dead_, who _broke John's heart_. I wanna kill him. I just wanna _kill him_..." His voice actually dropped to a growl far too deep to be Bruce, but he quickly reined himself in, gasping and shuddering against the cold mist still falling.

With an exaggeratedly put-upon sigh, Loki took off his jacket and threw it at Bruce. "Take it," he passively said, and everyone stared. "I'd much rather you remain dry and small than be wet and monstrous. For my own good health." Everyone seemed to accept his selfish reasoning except Thor, who continued to scrutinize his brother with a deep frown long after Bruce had calmed down enough to go inside. They were ushered back in by Steve, who looked very disgruntled at having just managed to help Tony calm Mrs. Hudson down, because the woman herself was upstairs and crying once more into the front of Sherlock's dirty jacket.

"Mrs. Hudson, I know you must be angry with me, but I promise, if my absence has caused you financial troubles in any way, I'll repay you tenfold," the man was saying as he awkwardly patted the old woman's back.

She drew away and swatted at his hand. "You great idiot!" she sobbed. "I'm not crying because I'm angry; I'm crying because I'm so, so happy you're alive!" Thus began her tears anew, and into Sherlock's more willing embrace she went.

John smiled anxiously at the Avengers and Loki as they traipsed back into the sitting room, looking bedraggled and tired. Night had long since fallen. "Um. Well. This is a bit weird," he admitted as he rubbed the back of his neck. "But. I'd like to introduce you all to my friend, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, these are the Avengers. And, um, one of their brothers." Loki glared half-heartedly; he really must have been tired. John made the executive decision that explanations could wait until morning, and after quickly filling Sherlock in on the sleeping arrangements ordered everyone to bed.

"I'll just have to, ah, sleep in one of the chairs, then," reasoned Sherlock, looking out of place and anxious for probably the first and only time in his life.

Experiencing a split-second moment of panic - _don't leave my sight or you might vanish again_ - John shook his head. "Nah, I have space in my room, we'll kip together. Besides, I still have to clean you up."

He didn't catch Bruce's stricken look following them up the stairs.

* * *

**Author's Note: Just because some people seemed curious here and on AO3, where I've cross-posted under the same username, I actually write a lot of John's reactions and emotions toward grief from personal experience.**** I mean, other than the "returning from the dead" bits, I've not experienced that yet.** I've lost a lot of people, and sometimes writing it out in a way that feels more real almost helps a little bit.


	12. Chapter 12

Loki refused to meet eyes with Thor even when they were secluded in the bedroom. "Is this not like old times, brother?" grinned Thor obliviously, throwing Loki's pajamas at him from across the room. "Do you not remember so many nights in Asgard when we were small, and you, afraid of the darkness, would cross the room and sleep in my bed?"

"I don't recall," muttered Loki as he crawled under the blankets. He could feel Thor's eyes boring into him still, and couldn't help squirming slightly as he tried to shut his mind against his brother. "_Why _must you keep looking at me when I am trying to sleep? This entire trip is an ordeal I'd like to be as painless as possible, and you are making it extremely difficult."

Instead of replying right away, Thor dropped into the bed and propped himself up on an elbow to better watch. "Outside, before, you showed care for Banner," he explained. "You gave him your coat to shield him from the rain."

"I did not show _care_, I simply did not wish him driven to rage by the cold."

Thor clearly didn't believe him, smiling knowingly at his brother. "It is alright, you know, brother, to care for my friends. They have shown you mercy, in saving you from Thanos, protecting you from those who may wish you harm in the mortal realm, allowing you to keep Sleipnir, and allowing you to stay in the Tower at all. To care for them and return their kindness would not go amiss. If anything, it may even endear them to you further."

Practically snarling, Loki turned onto his back and glared hatefully up at the ceiling. "I do not wish for their kindness, and I would certainly be happier if they carried on hating me," he said, though his voice was not as malicious as it should have been if he were truly angered. "If I descend to their petty human _kindness_, then what would I be? A god turned mortal, stripped of all that once made him great, something to be pitied, no better than an animal ripped away from its mother to serve the sick needs of those who are more powerful. Just like Sleipnir." His eyes glossed over, and he quickly rolled onto his side again.

"Brother, your pet is safe in the hands of the Lady Darcy-"

"I do not mean the cat."

He rolled to one side to face Loki's turned back. "Brother..." he sighed.

"I would rather be hated as a god than pitied as a mortal," growled Loki. His spine stiffened under Thor's awkward hug, but when it became clear that the elder god would not release him he relaxed and tried to sleep.

"But what of love?" Thor murmured after a long while. "For you are my brother, and I love you dearly. So long as I draw breath, you shall never be alone. If my mortal friends could see that you are still my brother beyond all things, or someone to be treated kindly, then perhaps they could hold you in the same regard as they do me."

Loki shifted slightly but no longer argued with Thor, instead allowing himself a comforting indulgence he had not had since he was small, before he was certain of just how different he was from the rest of Asgard, before he became the monster Mother had always warned them about. He grit his teeth and winced against the memory, but Thor's arm merely tightened its hold, protecting and shielding him, until he fell asleep in the safety of his brother's grasp.

* * *

After much manipulation and maneuvering, Tony talked Tasha and Clint into squeezing on the wide sofa, got Steve in the chair, and practically wrestled Bruce onto the air mattress. "Tony, what-?"

"You seem upset," murmured Tony, pulling the blanket over them.

"No, Tony, I-_mmpf!_" Bruce hummed as his mouth was stopped by Tony's. They kissed for a few minutes under the covers before he pulled back. "What was that about?"

Tony shrugged. His ARC reactor lit up the little bubble of solitude created by the blankets over their heads. "You're my friend and you're sad because the guy you like is..._unattainable_." He grinned at his own dramatic flair.

"He's not _unattainable_, he's just-"

"You and I both know perfectly well that John's been in love with Holmes for a long, long time." The words were harsh but he said it softly. Bruce was glad he could hear Clint and Steve snoring, and that Tasha was discreet by default. He was blushing like nobody's business, because of _course_he'd thought about this, it was hard not to think about Tony Stark that way, especially when he was prodding you in the side with electrodes and a shit-eating grin. "Now listen, even with Pepper and me done for, I don't think I'll be able to offer you anything very lasting or romantic, but I'm down to fuck once in a while if you are."

Bruce couldn't keep himself from chuckling quietly. "You're ridiculous," he whispered. "And...I'll think about it."

Smirking, Tony asked, "Wanna make out?" and Bruce kicked him. They laughed like hushed voiceless children before settling down to sleep. Bruce's heart was still wounded, and he knew that his billionaire best friend wouldn't be able to fill that gap of hurt without a serious personality shift or wake-up call, but being there under the covers, with Tony unabashedly cuddling him half to death, seemed to blur the pain around the edges a bit.

* * *

The next morning, after a shower and shave, Sherlock seemed calmer and less urgent. He was far from his old self, no longer content with sitting still and allowing the information to come to him in its own time, but darting his eyes across every corner to take in as much data as possible. John was loathe to say anything, but after the detective fell asleep he'd curled himself so tightly around John it had been a bit difficult to sleep or even breathe. But he washed his face and tried to hide the circles under his eyes before running to Tesco for groceries to make breakfast, knowing that Sherlock had needed the rest more than him.

He was reluctant to leave everyone alone with Sherlock, but hadn't even expected there to be yet another person in his flat when he returned. Mycroft was there, staring down at his younger brother with wide eyes and an unreadable expression.

"So, you're alive," he said mildly.

Sherlock nodded. From the corner of the room, Loki watched with a foreign expression on his face that looked a lot like hunger. The furrowed brow and creases in the corners of his eyes fractured into something more painful when the elder Holmes dragged his brother up by the arm and embraced him. "I am so sorry, Sherlock...little brother..." Mycroft's voice was muffled in his brother's shoulder. It was the most vulnerable he would probably ever be in all his life, and if anyone asked about the day his brother returned from the dead he would probably claim amnesia.

"I know, Mycroft," replied Sherlock, eyes silently challenging any of those watching to say something as he hugged his brother. "Listen to me now, I can't officially come back yet, but I need some supplies. A new laptop, phone, clothes, prescriptions...please, Mye?" His brother gave a curt nod, perfectly composed from the moment his face became visible to the rest of the room, and left without another word.

The first thing Sherlock did after Mycroft left, ignoring Earth's Mightiest Heroes as though he were alone in the flat, was to text Lestrade about Moriarty's final thread using John's phone.

_I'm alive. Come to Baker St_  
_at once. Bring the files on_  
_Ronald Adair._  
_SH_

Within fifteen minutes the DI was clomping up the stairs at breakneck pace and with a mutinous expression. "John, are you-?" he began to shout, then saw Sherlock and froze with his jaw hanging open. "So the text was real, then."

"Obviously," drawled Sherlock with arms crossed, managing to look ominous even in borrowed pajamas and his old dressing gown. "I trust you brought the files?"

Lestrade stared incredulously at Sherlock, before his whole face turned red and he started shouting. "Yes, I bloody brought the files, but only because I thought you were some lunatic who _kidnapped John_ and wanted them as _ransom, you great, fucking tit!_" he howled. The years had not softened his regard for Sherlock, but made him unspeakably bitter. "Do you have any fucking idea what I went through for you? I nearly lost my job! Donovan was moved to a precinct across the bloody country; _I might never see her again!_ All to protect the reputation of a man I thought _killed himself because of me!_I ought to finish the job myself right now, you great, sodding-!"

His forward dive for Sherlock's throat was cut short by, surprisingly, Loki, who stepped cleanly between Sherlock and the DI. "Unless you plan on killing him to complete this façade you've hidden behind for the past three years, I suggest you step away or face the consequences of your ridiculously inefficient justice system," he said in his soft, convincing voice, one hand braced against Lestrade's heaving chest. Sherlock - _everyone_- was looking at Loki as though he'd just professed undying love for Mrs. Hudson. The moment it became clear that Lestrade was backing down he stalked away to hide in the kitchen with Clint and Tony.

"Well," sighed the DI gustily, still rumpled with disgust. He tugged a wad of files from his shoulder bag and thrust them violently at John, refusing to meet anyone's eyes. "I don't know...if I _ever_ want to see your _fucking face _again, Holmes. If I do, though, it'll be on my terms. I...I hope you're happy." Actually bowing his head to stare at the floor and nothing else, Lestrade stormed out of the flat. It was so silent they could hear his every step and the slam of the door downstairs.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock held out his hand for the files. "You okay?" John asked as he passed them over.

His eyebrows twitched in forced nonchalance. "Of course, why wouldn't I be?" he drawled, already turning away to leaf through the files in the window, shoulders looking oddly heavy and uneven in the morning's light. How many times had his right shoulder been dislocated, for him to hold it like that? At least John understood why he'd been sitting so oddly curled when tied up the night before, and he felt a surprisingly small amount of guilt with the surge of satisfaction.

John made breakfast instead of dwelling on the way the morning light fell through Sherlock's curls, eight eggs for Thor and two or three for everyone else, toast, bacon, oatmeal; everyone liked something different, which made everything a living Hell when one tried to be courteous in taking the effort of preparing a meal for the team. Tony had cooks (or maybe AI, no one was quite clear) to make dinner every night according to their texted-in specifications; the one time Bruce attempted to make something, or when Thor wanted to prepare a proper Asgardian feast, it had been a bloodbath. Still, John did his best and felt more comfortable in the familiar kitchen by the minute, even if he had lived in New York longer than he'd lived in the Baker Street flat.

It was a scattered affair, breakfast. There wasn't enough room at the tiny kitchen table for more than two people (claimed, as usual, by Clint and Natasha), so everyone else took their food out into the main room of the flat. Loki was even quieter than usual, still taken aback after defending Sherlock from Lestrade's blind fury, but every time Thor looked at him there was pride beaming from his eyes.

"John, come and look at this, will you?" It was less of a question and more of a demand.

John remained exactly where he was on the sofa beside Steve. They were watching the news and there had been another roadside bombing in Afghanistan.

"_John_."

"I'm not your assistant, Sherlock," snapped John, feeling heat rise to his face. He was embarrassed because, despite his own stubborn pride, he damn well wanted to hover over Sherlock's shoulder and see what was up.

Sherlock seemed to sense his reticence and scowled - no, hash that, he pouted. He pouted like a child. "John, you know that your input is invaluable to me-"

"And where was my input over the last three years, eh? I think you can wait until the news is over," John retorted, and turned up the volume to an uncomfortable level.

In what was once John's regular armchair, Tony snorted. "Hey Bruce, who do you think tops? All this 'input' talk is getting me frisky," he practically purred. Bruce blushed and kicked him from the easy reach of Sherlock's old chair. It was weird; if John ever had imagined those men in his old sitting room, it was with Tony in Sherlock's chair and Bruce in his. Tony looked frightfully out of place in the old-fashioned wingback, but Bruce never really looked at home anywhere, so it was hard to tell how he felt about the arrangement.

As if noticing the people in his flat for the first time, Sherlock turned his wide, pale eyes on Tony. "Oh, hell, you're _Tony Stark_," he rumbled, tossing the files down in disgust. "Do you have any idea the number of interesting cases that have been ruined because of your little _toys?_ _Or_how many unregistered Stark weapons are still roaming the criminal underworld? You almost personally made my life a living hell for three years and you are certainly not welcome in my flat!"

"_Sherlock_." He didn't shout, but he dearly wanted to. Instead, John stood up and started gathering empty plates. "Anyone feel like sightseeing? I've never actually been to the Tower of London."

Before he could move there was a hand gripping his arm and pulling him into Sherlock's bedroom, the man himself staring John desperately in the face. "John, I need you on this case."

"No you don't," retorted John, pulling his arm free. "If you ever needed me, it was out there over the past three years. I can't just _drop everything _to play detectives with you again, Sherlock! I don't even live in London anymore! In two days, I'm flying back to New York, where I have a home, and a steady job, and friends who wouldn't lie to me about being dead. Understood?"

Swallowing thickly, Sherlock nodded, but still blocked John's way. "I'll let you go without argument, if that's what you want," he said almost breathlessly. "But John...our first case together, the cabbie, A Study in Pink, that was Moriarty's beginning with us too, wasn't it? It would only be...fitting...that our last case together be the fall of his empire, for if Moran gets away the empire _will _grow back. One last case and I'll never ask again." Something seemed to flash in his eyes and he added, "Please, John."

John stared at Sherlock, wondering not for the first time in the past day whether this was the same man who'd stepped off the roof of St. Bart's three years ago. He was trying very hard to be the same aloof, cold machine man as before the fall, but with very passing hour the facade crumbled further. It so strongly resembled Loki's transformation from god to man that John couldn't help pitying him. All he wanted was some return to normalcy after being thrown to the abyss.

"Alright, fine," he sighed, shoulders slumping, and Sherlock's eyes brightened. "_One more case_, and then I'm going back to New York, understood?"

"Yes, perfectly," nodded Sherlock, eagerly opening the bedroom door to let John through with the plates. He didn't make it more than three steps out into the main room of the flat before he was being grabbed and dragged down to the floor to a chorus of shouts.

Only six other bodies bodies hit the floor as a blinding white light sizzled through the windows and filled the flat. Bruce screamed in pain, then _roared_.


	13. Chapter 13

**AND SO BEGINS THE WORST ACTION SEQUENCE IN HISTORY BE PREPARED**

John first instinct on seeing Bruce crumple to the floor - screaming in pain as the clothes on his back were burned away by whatever the light was - was to crawl to him and make sure he was alright, but Sherlock grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him away. A steady stream of the burning white light was aimed like a laser at the wall only inches from their heads. The smell of burnt hair was quickly reaching across the floor to them. Bruce was on his elbows and knees, muscles bulging and distinctly greener than usual with strangled growls splitting the air, but he was still distinctly Bruce-shaped, clinging to himself for dear life.

"_GET - OUT!_" the half-Bruce roared, hands fisted in his dark curls as he writhed on the ground.

There was a scramble to get to the door or out of the laser-light's aim, but two people - Tony and Thor - crawled army-style toward Bruce to either calm him down or restrain him, respectfully. Tony put both hands on his face and the Hulk tried to bite him. Thor draped an arm over Bruce's shoulders and began to speak soothing words in his ear, then looked up at his brother with a clear nod to _get away_.

Only moments had passed since John hit the deck, but it felt like hours already. What was that light? Clint and Tasha were peering around the corner from the kitchen, protected behind the wall dividing the kitchen and hall. "Everyone okay?" she asked with an anxious glance at Bruce.

"We're fine, now get out!" shouted Tony before putting his hands back on Bruce's face. "Bruce, buddy, it's okay, you're okay! Everything's gonna be fine, big guy, just take a deep breath and-_ow, mother...fuck! Plan B, everyone out!_"

They crawled for the door while Thor held the Hulk down, Sherlock clomping along to keep up with John, and reached it just before the light vanished with a faint fizzle. "What the hell was that?" John breathlessly asked, cautiously getting up. There was a black stripe on the wall all across the parts of the flat exposed to the window and a thin haze of acrid smoke filled the air.

Sherlock was already running to the window and peering through with a shocked, almost terrified look on his face. "Moran. It appears I may have underestimated what he would do when backed into a corner," he said blandly, then turned to Loki. "You're an alien, yes? Recognize this from somewhere?"

The mortal god's eyes were wide with unbridled fear; it was the first time he'd been confronted with such a threat without his Jötun powers. "I do not," he whispered, "but...I think it may belong to Thanos. It resembles the Chitauri weaponry he supplied for their army. Thor, I need-"

"Loki, can you not see that I am busy?" roared his brother, both arms locked around the Hulk's expanding neck. "Banner, please, do not do this here!"

It was too late. Thor hung from around the Hulk's neck like a necklace, then dropped to the floor in a heap. The Hulk was panting, gravelly grunts whispering from his throat as he glared around the flat at all of them but didn't attack. Tony dove in front of him with both hands held up in a supplicating gesture. "Hey! Hey, big guy, remember me? It's Metal Man, you like me! Hulk - Hulk, don't, you're okay, it's okay!" He didn't flinch back as the Hulk shifted restlessly, filling up the whole room with his bulk. The floorboards creaked under his weight. "Hulk, you are _safe!_It's going to be okay, just listen to me, alright? Just look at me, big guy, come on..."

The Hulk shuffled, green eyes darting around, scared and angry, and growled low in his throat. "_Hurt,_" he rumbled.

"I know, buddy, but it's gonna be okay, we're gonna make it all better."

Huffing, eyes darkening in anger, the Hulk hunched down and roared into Tony's face. Loki scooted out of the room and down the stairs to hide from the beast that plowed him into the floor the last time they met. The Hulk crouched to look out the window, evidently seeing what Sherlock saw, and leaped through the wall into the building across the street.

"_Fuck!_" Tony cursed as traffic outside slammed to a halt, then shouted down the stairwell. "_Everybody suit up, we have a Code Green!_" From the corner where they'd stacked their overnight bags, Tony tossed John, Thor, and Sherlock everyone's bags with their suits in, then heaved his own Mark IX portable suit into his arms. He dropped the briefcase-looking package to his feet and stepped on it, and the suit built itself around his body. "_Go!_" he snapped.

Clutching bags to his chest, John led the way downstairs and started tossing cases to everyone who had been lucky enough to escape the flat before Bruce Hulked out. "Thor, I need you to give me my powers back," Loki urgently said the moment they had secluded themselves in Mrs. Hudson's flat to suit up.

The elder god shook his head. "I cannot, brother."

"Then how am I to defend myself?"

"You will stay here with the Lady Hudson, and protect her well, for she has been good to house us this past night," instructed Thor sternly, steering his brother by the shoulders to sit beside Mrs. Hudson on the flowery-patterned sofa. Kneeling before Loki, he added softly, "I have told you, brother. You will not have your powers back until you have earned them. Not even I can change such a vow." When Loki reluctantly nodded he stood, raising Mjölnir out the window to summon his armor. Clint and Tasha had stripped without shame to pull on their SHIELD standard-issue body armor. Steve had taken refuge in Mrs. Hudson's bathroom to change.

John tugged off his shirt to put on a bullet-proof vest, tossing his spare at Sherlock. "Come on, get dressed, we have to contain the Hulk, and if Moran has alien tech then the entire city's in trouble," he ordered, then started digging through his bag for the good shoulder-holsters. Sherlock darted out into the front entryway of the house and returned moments later with a package in his arms, running to Mrs. Hudson's bedroom with something inappropriately akin to glee in his eyes.

He stepped out last, and John couldn't help but smile. Though the bullet-proof vest made most people look square and bulky, Sherlock had grown so thin that he just seemed his normal size. John looked him up and down, observing the charcoal jacket and trousers, and the dark purple shirt he so loved to keep unbuttoned at the top - even though the vest showed underneath. After three years of mourning and wishing, Sherlock was _back_.

Tony clapped him on the back, snapping him out of his reverie. "Done drooling, bud? Because we have work to do." John could hear Tony's grin from behind the mask, and rolled his eyes before handing Sherlock two guns and the lesser-quality shoulder holsters. The taller man wrinkled his nose when the stiffer leather dug into his underarms, and John allowed himself a smirk before Clint ushered them over to make plans and Tony took Thor out to corral the Hulk.

"Alright, Sherlock, you've been tracking this guy for three years," Natasha said matter-of-factly. "So, what can we expect?"

"He's been trained in some of the best and most discreet military facilities in the nation," Sherlock reported instantly. "His friends in the army called him the Bengali Basher because he was particularly known for poaching Bengal Tigers in his free time. He's a killer, a gambler, and a tactical genius. He knows how to move undetected, but if he's resorted to cavorting with alien technology then he's obviously not operating in his comfort zone. That's an advantage for us. If his alien friends have come with him, however...well, that's your jurisdiction."

"Loki, what d'you reckon our chances are of Thanos coming?" John asked over his shoulder.

Looking up with barely restrained fear in his eyes, Loki replied, "Very likely, if he still seeks vengeance for my failure. Thor has been on Earth too long; tracking my ties to him would be child's play."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "If you're all he wants, then why not just hand you over?" he asked, puzzled, and Tasha swatted him on the arm. "Ow! What?"

"Cut it out," she ordered darkly, casting Loki an odd look before leading the way out of the house. Green eyes, filled with something shining, strange and new, followed them closely. "John, make sure Sherlock's back is covered, he's new to this. Clint, try to find anyone holding weapons, maneuver them my way and I'll take out who I can."

Shouldering his quiver, the archer nodded and took off in search of a decent vantage point. Teeming in their direction were a dozen alien soldiers that made John's breath catch in his throat. Yes, he had read the report and seen pictures of the Chitauri, even taken a look at the one corpse Tony kept frozen in one of the many R&D levels of Stark Tower, but none of that prepared him to see them in the living flesh. They weren't Chitauri, but hell, they were _aliens_. Each one of them carried a gun - "Like the one Moran was carrying," Sherlock supplied - but seemed selective of who they shot. One man went free, only to subject a woman to a green ray that made her collapse bonelessly to the pavement. John shot the creature before it could do any further damage.

Just as John was beginning to wonder what had happened to the Hulk he came crashing from the same building he'd jumped into minutes ago. He roared up the street toward them, almost able to spread out both arms and destroy every building on either side of the narrow street, but was stopped from trampling John and Sherlock by Iron Man hovering neatly before his eyes.

"Hey, Jolly Green, come on, man, don't do this! Not to them!" shouted Tony, and the Hulk stopped in his tracks, panting. They appeared to meet eyes before one of the aliens' beams - red this time - hit them. The Hulk roared but seemed otherwise unaffected; Tony's repulsors died and he crashed to the pavement with a clang of metal.

When his ARC reactor went dark John felt his breath stop. "Tony?" he called as Tony seemed to twitch and struggle in his unresponsive suit, but the Hulk seemed experienced with this. He picked up Tony like a metal doll, roared in his face, then dropped him back to the pavement, and, surely enough, the reactor lit up again. Tony picked himself up, said, "Thanks, bud. Work with us this time?" and actually _fist-bumped the Hulk_before flying off again. Just when John thought he'd seen it all.

"John!" Sherlock shouted in alarm. Red light engulfed them and John stiffened, expecting something drastic, but if anything happened it was his watch stopping. Okay, red light stopped electronics, he noted as Sherlock realized the same lack of effect and shot at the alien's armored hide. Their guns were affective, but only with an impeccable shot to the eye of the aliens or many shots to the same spot, weakening the outer shell enough to break it and then shoot the soft flesh underneath.

Out of nowhere, Thor dropped and swung his hammer down onto the alien's head. Its armor shattered like an eggshell and it fell to the ground, before one of its fellows swung down and shot Thor with a white beam like the one that caused Bruce to change. Though his skin was tougher than a human's Thor still screamed in agony, hammer falling from his failed grip. Then the white beam changed to blue and Thor's muscles froze. John and Sherlock were both shooting at the alien but it was padded with more armor that was tougher to get through. It swung its gun around and Thor - and everything else to get caught in the blue beam - followed until he was dumped out fifty feet down the block, Mjölnir abandoned in the middle of the street outside 221.

Five more of the alien soldiers dropped down from the sky and surrounded John and Sherlock, their backs pressed together as the ring closed in around them. John almost imagined he could feel Sherlock's heartbeat through their vests and jackets. Further up the street the Captain was trapped in one of the blue beams, Natasha had just been felled by the green, and Clint was nowhere to be found. They were outgunned, but not yet outnumbered. Iron Man was still shooting at all he could see, to no immediate avail.

Above them all stood Thanos, old as the Tree of Life and grinning, watching the chaos as police and fire rescue vehicles tried to come closer but were immobilized by the red beams. John turned his head, trying to look at Sherlock one last time, and was frozen staring at 221 Baker Street by a blue beam. Muscles frozen as though he were being electrocuted, John watched as Loki yanked Mrs. Hudson from the house just before it collapsed under the Hulk's weight thrashed about by four aliens with blue beams.

_This is it_, thought John calmly. _This is how I'm going to die. I didn't even have Sherlock back for a day and now this._

Far away, there was a golden cry of pain, and Loki looked up with a hunted expression. "_THOR!_"

It took maybe seconds for chaos to break loose. Loki ran into the street, his mortal body unarmed and unprotected, not even a slightest threat to Thanos' army, but those nearest him tore their guns away from John and Sherlock regardless. Loki vanished from John's sight, and something whistled through the air just before a flash of green shot across the corner of his eye. His heart sank.

**...sorry for the cliffhanger. Really, I am.  
**


	14. Chapter 14

**Posting quarter of an hour early as a gift to you all. Please see end notes. Love ya!**

But then, inexplicably, the Hulk was free, tearing apart every alien within reach and knocking over the ones holding John and Sherlock like dominoes. Once they were able to move they targeted a single soldier and appropriated his gun, using it to paralyze another so Sherlock could take one for himself. Instead of shooting at the alien soldiers around, Sherlock started scanning the windows nearby, and with a cry of pure jubilation shot a green beam into a building. "Ha! You are _mine_, Moran!"

John turned just in time to see the Hulk tearing apart the aliens who hurt Thor and drove Loki to...whatever it was he'd done. Inhaled dust stung his throat and lungs, and made his eyes water. The gun wavered in Sherlock's shaking arms as he turned to face John with a grin that made him look positively euphoric. Then it hit him that they were _together_, not just side-by-side, and he grinned too.

An arrow whizzed past John's ear to hit the alien approaching John from behind and explode, pretty potently ruining the moment when the force sent John and Sherlock flying. Bony limbs draped over him, shielding him rather ineffectively from flying shrapnel, but the sentiment was there. Blood dribbled down the side of his face from a fresh gash in his eyebrow. "Alright?" asked Sherlock as he offered a hand up.

"Brilliant," John grunted. "Never better. Where's-?"

The star-spangled shield bounced off the four remaining untouched aliens, sending them all sprawling back onto their backs where Sherlock could finish them off with their own weapons.

"Ah. Found him."

They all turned their weapons on Thanos, who was no longer grinning, and within seconds he flickered and disappeared. The ghost of his last laugh echoed through the still air.

Thor ignored them all, tattered cape flying behind him as he ran for his brother, who was immobile but still alive, if Tasha's stirring was anything to go by. He gently eased his brother upright and against his chest, tears glistening in his eyes. "Brother, how...?" he whispered, stunned beyond all further words as he pushed the hair back from Loki's grimy forehead. Mrs. Hudson, nursing a bruise on her face but no other extreme injuries, picked her way through the rubble to crouch beside them.

"Well, I wasn't looking the whole time, so much going on, you know, but he picked up that hammer of yours, and threw it at the ones who had your big green friend in a fix so he could get away," she supplied while adjusting the collar of Loki's shirt in a motherly fashion.

As they turned to him, the Hulk looked around as though wondering what happened to his fight, panted a few times, then began to shrink back down until Bruce was staggering breathlessly into a pile of rubble. John hurried to his side, pulling off his own jacket to cover him up, and - because the doctor in him just wouldn't believe anyone could be okay after such an ordeal - checked his vital signs. Everything turned out fine, of course, even if Bruce was tired and a little woozy.

John looked around at his friends, grateful that this fight had been a short one, and realized with a pang that, though he wished the war could be over, he would never really be away from the battlefield. No matter who he chose, no matter what side of the Atlantic he lived on, there would always be a fight on the horizon waiting. And even though that wasn't always a bad thing for a recovering adrenaline junkie like him, it certainly put a strain on his nerves for how he worried about those around him. Sooner or later their luck would run out. John just hoped, as he watched Sherlock sprint for the building where he'd immobilized Moran, for that time to come much, much later.

Still, there was no rest for the agents, even when the real heroes had given their statements and retrieved what they could from the rubble of 221 Baker Street. "Nice as the decor is, I think I'm paying for a hotel," Tony announced before planting a kiss on Mrs. Hudson's unbruised cheek and ushering her to Steve's side. "Call me when you're done de-briefing and I'll give you the deets!" Then they climbed into a government-provided car (Thank you, Mycroft) and drove off, leaving John to usher in the emergency teams.

His leg twinged as he shifted some rubble out of the way of a fire truck, but he figured it was just the old psychosomatic pain coming back to haunt him at an inconvenient time. Besides, there was so much to do that even if his leg was hurt bringing attention to himself would only be a hindrance. So he carried on getting the cleanup crews in, gave his statement to the police, did de-briefing with a British representative of SHIELD (he'd wondered where Anthea had gone to; it was nice to see her doing so well), then went in search of Sherlock. The last he'd seen him the detective was running after Moran, but that had been at least an hour ago.

"John."

He turned, wincing as his leg pulled, and smiled crookedly at Mycroft. "Just the man I wanted to see. Where's Sherlock gone?" he asked, ignoring the pulsing whiteness digging in at the corners of his eyes.

The elder Holmes smiled. "Colonel Moran has been taken into custody - custody of the highest order, no chancing with the pedestrian police force this time - and Sherlock is supervising his interrogation as we speak. I was given the honorable task of fetching you, Agent Watson." Something like pride shone in his eyes when he addressed John that way, and John felt his chest imperceptibly swell; his ego had been suitably stroked for the day.

They passed Natasha on their way to the car. She was on the phone with Director Fury, debriefing him on what happened, "_when I turn my back for two minutes, you assembled idiots!_" in his words. She looked up and smiled at John while Fury let off steam, then frowned when her eyes flickered down to his feet and covered the mouthpiece of her mobile to address him. "John, you're bleeding, you know?" she pointed out with a nod before returning to the call.

John looked down and wrinkled his nose at the steady stream of blood slowly trickling out from under the hem of his trousers. Tracing the trail up his leg, he pulled aside his shirt and found a hunk of shrapnel embedded in his hip. _Ah. Well, no wonder I was limping, that ought to hurt,_ he thought to himself. Then he took another step and white-hot pain seared outward from the injury like an electric current. It was rather like a child not crying until they saw the blood for themselves. His leg crumbled uselessly under him without another moment to spare his pride. EMTs were rushing over with the barest gesture from Mycroft, hauling him up and into a nearby ambulance to clean him up. The pain was almost ridiculous within seconds, making the white fog in his eyes expand. He almost thought he saw two people climbing into a nearby police box as he was being carried, but then a small group walked across his line of sight and it was gone, only Natasha standing - stunned and cursing into her phone - where it had been.

The wound wasn't as bad as it initially looked with all the blood and debris in it, though he did need an armful of stitches and some prescription painkillers for the small fracture in his hipbone that would take weeks to heal. He was going to need physio, and accepted a crutch with a forlorn sigh. At least crutches seemed less permanent than a cane in his addled mind. By the time he'd called Tony to find out where everyone was staying, they all were wondering what happened. "John, where the hell are you?" By the sounds of it, Tony had opened up the mini-bar.

"I'm fine," he started with, knowing how to order his responses, "but I'm just getting out of the hospital. D'you have-?" Sherlock rounded the corner, literally tossing his phone away as he saw John checking out. "Never mind, I've got a ride. Text me the address, yeah? See you later. Hey, Sherlock, where've you-_oh!_"

The lanky detective's arms were suddenly wrapped around him as tightly as a python. "You disappeared," his voice rumbled against John's chest.

Huffing a laugh, John patted Sherlock on the back. "So did you."

"I thought you were hurt."

"Well, technically..."

Sherlock pulled away and glared at him. "You know what I mean, John. Come on, Moran's in custody and there's nothing more I can do with him. I suppose you want to find your new _superpals?_" he drawled.

"They're hardly new if I've known them for two years," retorted John with a roll of his eyes, limping toward the doors. "I've known them longer than I've known you, actually."

"Hardly-!"

"I knew you for eighteen months, I've known the team for twenty-five."

"But I was still _alive_, so technically, you still knew me. I win."

"This isn't a game, Sherlock!" John said, but he was laughing. Sherlock hailed a cab and held the door for John to clamber awkwardly in without pulling his stitches. John gave the cabbie the address Tony texted, ignoring Sherlock's growl of distaste in favor of reminding him that Mrs. Hudson was with them.

Much of the city was undisturbed by the attack, though it seemed that there was a widespread blackout. Candles glowed in many windows and beams of torches bouncing along the walls as children ran around with them, despite the fact that it would still be light out for several hours, but after a certain point lights were still working. The Tube would probably be screwed for days, though. John leaned against the window and watched the city where he'd grown up, the city that harbored him after the war, the city that brought him to Sherlock, slowly slide by. It was strange to know that for the past two years so many things about the city must have changed, and neither Sherlock nor John had been there to see it. Though he supposed the same principle could apply to John and Sherlock of one another. Sherlock was thinner, coarser, more worldly and maybe even something close to humble. John was fitter, steadier, and far more patient and resourceful than even in the eighteen months he lived on Baker Street.

Naturally, Tony chose the swankiest hotel in London to be their temporary home until returning to New York. John hadn't even heard of it before, but it reached the sky and had a doorman. Since they had no things left to bring in they skipped the bellhop and found the others in the hotel restaurant.

"The hell happened to you?" Clint asked with a nod at John's crutch. John explained the shrapnel in his hip, by then feeling a bit loopy from the pain pills, and figured that it had happened when Sherlock had been protecting him from one of Clint's exploding arrows earlier, though he omitted that facet of the story since Sherlock and Tony were already engrossed in a transatlantic pissing contest. Bruce smiled at John across the table and offered John chips from his plate until he could get his own food. With deft hands Steve snatched the liquor menu from John after hearing the pills clack in his pocket. Tasha flicked him in the forehead when he looked like he might protest, then ordered shepherd's pie and an apple juice for him because she knew he didn't care for fizzy drinks. It felt oddly like being part of a family, except...

"Where's Thor? Loki's okay, isn't he?"

Bruce smiled as he rooted around for a crispy chip at the bottom of the stack. "They're talking upstairs, trying to figure out what happened earlier, I think," he said. At John's puzzled look he explained. "Well, your landlady - who is laying down but totally fine - claims she saw Loki pick up Mjölnir and throw her, which by all rights and purposes ought to be impossible."

"I thought you could lift it under special circumstances," frowned John as the waiter brought his juice in a laughably small glass more suitable for children. Clint made a disgusted face until he promised to bring a bigger one.

Leaning forward - but still keeping his elbows off the table like a properly-raised WWII vet - Steve nodded. "It's possible. I did it once; it only lasted a few seconds, just long enough to do what was needed, and I haven't been able to again since. People like Thor, good people, are able to pick up Mjölnir. Not killers like Loki."

"Then how do you think he managed it?" challenged Tasha with an eyebrow cocked. "One of his tricks? Except, _oh, wait_, he doesn't _have_ his powers. Come on, Cap, don't make me resort to blonde jokes."

"Why are you defending him when he _killed Phil?_" Steve hissed with a positively shattered look on his face.

"Because he had the chance to kill every single one of us over the past year," snapped Tasha. "Multiple chances, even as a mortal, but the most he did with his opportunity was let his cat pee in my bed a few times and giggle whenever Clint stepped in a puddle. Besides, we've already established that he was being threatened and manipulated by Thanos at the time of the Chitauri invasion. Let's back a wildcat into a corner and see if it doesn't kill someone before warming up to its trainers again. Not that we're his trainers, but the principle's the same."

They clammed up when the waiter came back with John's pie and bigger juice. Seeing that he was too busy yammering with Tony to order anything, John put half his food on a small plate for Sherlock with a long-suffering sigh. He wondered vaguely if he ought to just fetch a measuring tape and have Sherlock and Tony lay them out on the table.

"Thor and Loki have spent a lot of time holed up in their apartment together," John patiently pointed out before the others could start arguing again. "None of us know what they got up to in there, but maybe Thor said something that got through. Or maybe our lovely, shining influence rubbed off on him," he added with a roll of his eyes.

Tasha shrugged. "Either way, I'm giving them another hour before I go up. Tony booked all of the suites so we could get pretty far apart, but we all know how Thor's voice carries."

Clint shot her an odd look across the table (_even the honeymoon suite?_), she quirked her eyebrows (_you bet_), and they both smiled secretively.

**Hey guys! Just wanted to give a heads-up that I'm not going to post the next chapter right at midnight like I usually do; instead I'm going to bed early and posting it after I wake up. I have an interview Wednesday afternoon and want to be well-rested for it so my hopefully future employer doesn't think I'm a crazy person or a goblin or something. Thank you all for your kindness and support! Be gentle to yourselves.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Just kidding I'm too nervous to sleep yet here have a chapter.**

"I have already told you a dozen times what happened, Thor," sighed Loki from where he was leaning against the wall opposite Thor in their room, pressing against it as though trying to be as physically far from his brother as possible without actually leaving. "I must have manipulated one of the soldiers' guns into moving the hammer into the Hulk's captors. I don't remember clearly enough."

Thor was clearly having none of his tricks. "Brother, I know what I saw. Do not try to lie to me, for even with a silver tongue I can see through this. You wielded Mjölnir. You saved us all."

"No, I didn't-"

"Why do you deny such an act of valor?" laughed Thor. "You are a hero, brother, you should hold yourself with pride rather than hiding here like a scolded child. Our friends will not shun the man who rescued them from certain-"

"_I did not do it for them!_" Loki shouted as though the burden of such knowledge would have torn him apart to hold it in any longer. Watching Thor take a cautious step away from him, he swallowed and slid down to sit on the floor. "I did not care if any of those _stupid mortals_ lived or died. My interest...my interest was only in saving you. Then, when the time came, you would restore my powers." His thoughts turned back to that morning, when the elder brother of Watson's friend arrived unannounced in the flat and had fallen to pieces over the sight of Sherlock alive. Unconsciously, Loki echoed his words. "I now find myself...deeply regretting what I did to this planet, if only for the pain it caused you. My...my brother," he whispered.

In what seemed to be one swift move, Thor stepped nearer, hoisted him from the floor, and planted him in a plush armchair by the window. "Even now, you hide your boundless bravery behind...what? Your love for me? Loki, why are you so afraid to show you care for them?" he incredulously asked. When Loki continued to stare down at his hands, he softened further. "The lady Hudson was kind to you, and you pulled her safely from the house as it fell. Agent Watson was kind to you, and you distracted the soldiers away from him and his shield-brother. Loki..." He reached forward and placed a hand on his brother's chest. "You have a good heart, a heart that has been proven to love another. Why can you not see that?"

"Because I am a monster!" spat Loki, then gasped and blinked in the face of his own confession. Once the words came he couldn't seem to stop them. "I am a frost giant, Thor! I was never meant for such depth of feeling, do you not understand? That is why I do not see my so-called 'good heart,' you miserable oaf! I do not have a heart to begin with! I cannot love, even if I have suffered the illusion!"

Rather than matching the mortal god's stricken, defeated expression, Thor smiled tenderly and cupped his brother's cheek briefly in one hand until he pulled away. "Do you not see, brother? This is not heartlessness; this is humility. Despite whatever origins you may carry, you were raised an Asgardian, and you would have been discovered a born Jötun far sooner had you no heart. No matter from whence you came, you have loved and been loved in return. Or have you forgotten the heart of the lady who even now waits for your return? You are of Asgard, you are my brother, and the sooner you realize that even the most unlikely creatures can be capable of kindness, the sooner your powers will return to you. Wielding Mjölnir today was an enormous leap, but you have a way yet to go before you can rejoin me in Asgard, and I will remain with you until that time comes." Watching Loki's face closely as it flew through many different conflicting emotions, Thor assured himself that those shifting expressions alone were enough to prove his theory true. Still, he could not resist adding, "You must know that she loves you still," just to see the look of conflicted joy and despair in his eyes.

They heard the others creeping as silently as possible into the room adjoining theirs - even spies and assassins tended to stumble a bit when tipsy, let alone Tony who was almost constantly tipsy - and with a silent look agreed to continue their conversation another time. Almost unable to help himself, Thor reached out and ruffled Loki's hair before getting up to see what was happening with the others. Loki growled at him and stayed where he was, to avoid confrontation just yet.

"We're going to the honeymoon suite," Tasha announced, grabbing Clint's arm as Thor entered the corridor.

Tony made a sound of outrage. "I booked that room for Sherlock and John!" he cried, gesturing to the bedraggled detective and the doctor-turned-agent; Thor's eyes widened at the crutch, but John seemed almost above the pain and smiling a lot. "Besides, we need to go get more clothes! It's the middle of the afternoon! That's just undiginifi-okay, they're gone. But no, really, guys, I know John's got the bum leg but I can have hotel security kick them out if you're feeling it."

"We aren't a couple," Sherlock said briskly, and John blinked. "Well? We aren't."

Shrugging with his unoccupied arm, John looked down at his feet with some effort - he looked to Thor like he'd had too much mead. "You just never said that before. I was always the one to say it."

"Oh, John's doped up on pain pills," Tony informed Thor, and in the room adjoining Thor's Bruce chuckled. "But we need clothes! Everything was sort of destroyed - except what we managed to parse together for Little Big Man in there, for obvious reasons - so unless you two want to keep playing Seven Minutes in Valhalla, I suggest you come along and find something clean or, you know, human to wear around."

After fetching Mrs. Hudson, Bruce, Steve, and a very reluctant Loki from their rooms (Clint and Tasha couldn't be reached), Tony called for another car and took them to the nearest department store for new clothes and belongings. John, who was feeling more tired and achey by the minute even with the pills, groggily picked up a dozen pairs of black pajama bottoms that would look close enough to his suit trousers to work in without too much effort. Sherlock took care of shirts and jackets when the fogginess made him forget and want to sit down. Then he wondered why Sherlock was even there with them, since Mycroft had already promised to get anything he needed, but wasn't about to question his motives while he was running around doing things for John.

"Feeling okay, Captain Watson?" asked Steve with a sympathetic grin, sinking onto the bench John had crept away to, near the changing rooms. A small pile of clothes was hugged to his broad chest.

John smiled wearily. "Just another war wound," he shrugged. "Everyone seems to be having fun, at least."

It was true. Loki was terrorizing Thor with one of the flashy whirring monstrosities from the toy department, Tony was regarding an expansive selection of sunglasses, Mrs. Hudson was speaking with a saleswoman about what colors would look best on her (the saleswoman, not Mrs. Hudson), and Sherlock and Bruce had vanished somewhere among the vast expanse of purple shirts. The soldiers looked out over their friends and smiled fondly. Steve was of two worlds already, and now John was watching his old life and new life collide as well. Maybe they had more in common as even Steve had anticipated when they spoke in the airport two years ago.

Four times during the night, John accidentally rolled onto his right side and gave a startled shout of pain that woke everyone in the suite with him, and every time it happened Sherlock was the first to swoop to his side. Before he was even fully awake Sherlock was coaxing water or more pills into him, carefully sorting him onto his other side or his back and waiting until he'd fallen asleep before getting up. On the fourth occasion Sherlock didn't bother leaving John's bed at all, just rolling him onto his back and flinging an arm across his chest to pin him down. It wasn't ideal, but he didn't hurt himself again.

Clint and Natasha both carried looks of smug satisfaction at breakfast the next morning, though it faded slightly when they saw everyone comfortable in their clean new clothes. Then with a shrug, Tasha looked briefly over the dining room before approaching a couple similar in size to her and Clint. They talked for a few moments, then smiled at one another and left the restaurant together. Twenty minutes later she returned in a silk dress - the woman's silk dress - and with clothes for Clint in a bag on her hip. The satisfaction in their smiles was back.

By midday Fury was in London to do damage control, so naturally, the Avengers were determined to stay as far from him as possible. John's leg couldn't put up with much walking, though it was a miracle he could walk at all, really, and he benefited from having a billionaire friend who enjoyed throwing his wads of money blindly and in every direction. They went to all the typical tourist attractions in hired cars, and when Bruce mentioned going to the National Gallery John and Sherlock couldn't help grinning at each other before Sherlock looked out the window again.

Sherlock wasn't in much of a talkative mood, and though it wasn't as though he'd ever been the chattiest man John had ever met he was still puzzled. He hardly looked at John for more than a few moments at a time, and even went so far as to walk away when someone mentioned going back to New York. Probably, he was wondering if another house would be built where 221 used to be, and if Mrs. Hudson would still let him live there, or who would clean up after him or bring him tea while he was thinking in the middle of a case. For those concerns John did not feel the least bit apologetic. Then he would feel eyes prickling the back of his neck, and he would turn to look at Sherlock just in time so see him dart his gaze elsewhere.

"You could always come with us, you know," he mentioned offhandedly at the top of the London Eye. Everyone else was leaning against the window to get a better view, even Bruce was tentatively peering down at the city below, though taking very deep breaths. "I'm not too sure about how Director Fury would feel about you being a SHIELD agent, but there are always murders, no matter where in the world you are."

Sherlock turned away to look out the window. Then, "What if I told you I was tired of all the murders?" he asked in a low voice.

"I'd knock you on the head and ask what you'd done with the real Sherlock Holmes," answered John honestly, and Sherlock grinned, apparently satisfied. "But, really, you've been pretty quiet today. Everything alright?"

There was a long moment where Sherlock obviously battled with himself over whether or not to reply. Just the fact that John could see the fight playing out on his face showed how the years had changed him. "Everything I did out there, every man I killed...I'm not built like you, John. I thought I was, I thought I could divide everything into black and white - nice men and bad men - the way you did, to justify my actions. I had to...propel myself, through everything, with reminders that I would someday be back in London. With...with you, John," he mumbled at last. John quickly looked down into his lap with something terrible and fluttery trying to tear its way out of his chest.

Across the car, dark green eyes watched their conversation closely, no longer paying attention to what Mrs. Hudson was saying about her neighbor Mrs. Turner.

"Why, what did you say her name was?" blurted Steve, then he blushed. "Sorry, ma'am, I meant no disrespect, but-"

Laughing and waving a hand, Mrs. Hudson almost turned just as pink in the face as Steve had. "Oh, it's alright, dear! I've spent enough time around Sherlock to be well used to answering questions in the middle of a story. She goes by her married name, Marie Turner, but when I was a little girl and she babysat me - can you imagine? And now we're neighbors! - she went by her middle name. It was rather more common back in my day - or is it still our day, dear? Oh, I'm sorry, I couldn't help the little joke. You know, I fancied you something fierce when I was growing up! And you're still such a handsome young man! If only I had been as lucky!" she chuckled.

"O-oh, no, ma'am, I think you're lovely," insisted Steve quickly. "I was only wondering what Mrs. Turner's name was before she married her husband."

Mrs. Hudson smiled up at him knowingly. "Before Mrs. Turner married her husband, her name was Carter. Peggy Carter."

Everyone in the hanging car shut up to do a double-take. Steve looked like he was going to cry. Beneath them, London rolled serenely by, unaware of how a man's life had just shifted.


	16. Chapter 16

**Posting early because I'm hopefully going to bed early this time! Be gentle to yourselves, everyone.**

Unfortunately for poor Steve, Mrs. Turner's house had also been damaged in what would be the first of many battles against Thanos. She'd been picked up by one of her children to stay until repairs were made, and the Avengers were leaving for New York in the morning, much to the First Avenger's chagrin. It was like someone had got him with a Joy Zapper with how he kept fiddling and anxiously biting his lip. John could barely stand to look at him, his dejection made him so sad. In fact, _no one_ really knew what to say to a super-soldier who'd been frozen for 70 years and just found out his girlfriend was still alive.

Sherlock and Loki were equally silent for the rest of their tour through the city, probably lost in the complex thoughts that tangled themselves in that dark hair, and both vanished as soon as they reached the hotel. Twenty minutes later Tony was crossing the hall from John's suite to his and Bruce's when the scheming pair grabbed him and dragged him into another suite. John had been getting ice when he heard the billionaire's yelp, but dismissed it as Tasha or one of the others playing a prank and limped back to his suite.

By evening, everyone was wondering what happened to the richest and slyest of the group. "Ten bucks says we'll find them drunk off their asses somewhere," Clint announced at dinner.

"I'll bet twenty they're having a wicked threesome in one of the suites," replied Natasha, sipping nonchalantly from a glass of wine in another pretty silk number. No one quite dared ask where she'd found it.

Frowning, Steve said, "Wouldn't we hear them through the walls if they were..." he cast Mrs. Hudson an embarrassed glance, "up to something? Why, usually even in nice joints the only soundproof room is...well..." A blush rocketed up his neck. Clint and Natasha looked horrified, then ran to check on the state of their suite.

"I do not understand, I thought John and Sherlock were vowed shield-brothers," frowned Thor. "Why would Sherlock be copulating with others if he has already sworn his bond with another?"

John nearly spat out his orange juice. "Wh-what? Is _that_ what shield-brothers means?" he choked as Bruce, doubled-over with suppressed laughter, patted him on the back.

"Not always, though copulation does sometimes strengthen the warriors' bond," explained Thor as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I understand that many mortals find the idea of such a bond with one of my kind, the noble Æsir, imposing, which is why I never dared ask such a thing of the Captain or Lady Natasha. Is it not as uncommon between mortals as I once believed?"

"No, not really," John laughed with a shake of his head.

Bruce pointed at him. "What about friends with benefits?" he challenged. "That usually strengthens bonds between friends."

"At least until the boundaries fade and it shatters the friendship."

"Well, obviously, but-"

"Are you guys talking about friends with benefits?" Natasha asked as she and Clint returned from securing their temporary homestead. "Loki's gone, Sherlock and Tony too. We should probably go looking for them."

John considered the idea closely, not liking the spike of anxiety awakened in the pit of his chest at the idea that Sherlock was alone with one man famous for trickery and lies and another with a great amount of money and a penchant for explosives at his disposal. Then again, that was where Sherlock was most at home. Then _again_, three of them were probably the most dangerous combination of (at least temporarily) human minds on Earth. "Yeah, you're right, we should _definitely_ look for them," he agreed, groping around for his crutch.

They immediately left, with Bruce hovering at John's elbow in case he needed help, which only made him more determined to keep up. Natasha was on her phone making inquiries with other agents in the area, and John got the idea to call Mycroft. The elder Holmes' people had caught a few glimpses of Sherlock on the CCTV, and he pointed John in the correct direction before returning to the masses of damage control put in his hands by SHIELD. There was barely enough time to thank him before the mobile in his hands went dead.

"This way," he instructed, pointing with his crutch once his phone was safely tucked away, and setting off at a snail's pace. Tony had vanished and none of them had any money salvaged from the ruins of Baker Street, so walking was their only option unless a particularly charitable stranger passed by. John wasn't certain how long he would last.

Sherlock's usual haunts were devoid of the men, though there were a few signs of previous inhabitance. Namely, a cigarette butt that smelled like the ones Sherlock always smoked when he fell off the wagon. It wasn't the cigarette that worried John as much as the locations where they were finding signs of Sherlock, Tony, and Loki's presence. Shortly after moving into the Baker Street flat a map of the city had arrived in his post box at work. Across the map red circles indicated, apparently, all of the places Sherlock used to buy drugs when he supported a less savory lifestyle.

It felt like they crossed half the city in search of the others, though in reality it was a distance John would have scoffed at uninjured. It was embarrassing. He hadn't been so badly injured since he was shot, and surely the team was going to think he was weak or incapable now. If he brought it up, he knew they would just laugh at him, but the idea cut away at him regardless. All his life he'd been the responsible one, the dependable one who always got Mum and Harry out of trouble when they were caught drunk somewhere, and he had a steady job every summer to help when Dad was unemployed. But things never got done when he was sick or hurt. His family suffered and made sure he knew it, so he ran away to the army where he became responsible and dependable to his fellows there. "Now what're we gonna do without you, Captain?" they'd joked when he was shot and being sent home for the damn psychosomatic limp. Then he'd met Sherlock, who was a whirlwind of energy and constantly in need of something, and after Sherlock came SHIELD. It seemed that he was just destined to be a babysitter.

A hand touched his elbow and snapped him out of his maudlin thoughts. "Do you need a break?" Bruce asked with a nod to the crutch, steering him to an unoccupied bus shelter and calling to he others that they'd only be a minute before he could reply. "You're looking a little off-kilter, Doctor. Do you mind?" He smiled sheepishly, one hand hovering near John's forehead until he nodded his consent, then felt his temperature. "A little elevated, but it's a warm day. How's the pain, I can give you a pill if you'd like."

"Where'd you get those?" John frowned as Bruce pulled his bottle of pain pills from a pocket.

"Um. Clint gave them to me. I thought you knew."

He rolled his eyes. "I _am_ a doctor, I think I can handle my own medication."

"Pain does funny things to the memory, Doc, we're only thinking of your safety," insisted Bruce in his calming voice as he dumped two tiny white pills onto his palm, then offered them with a bottle of water. He always called John Doctor when he was trying to be placating.

Sighing, he swallowed the pills and stretched his legs out in front of him. "God, I feel old," he grumbled.

Bruce chuckled, "Careful, John, you're the same age as me, you know." He smiled sunnily, bringing a bit more light to the gray sky, before straightening and offering John a hand up. Already the pills were starting to work and he felt a bit stronger.

"You seem happy, Bruce," John couldn't help commenting before they rejoined the group. "I mean to say, you know, you're never exactly a ball of energy, but the past few days you've seemed a bit...morose. But you look happier. Today, I mean. God, sorry, I don't mean-" He irritably huffed as Bruce grinned.

"I know what you mean, John. Yeah, I was a little, uh, confused, but." He shrugged, digging the hand not occupied by John's elbow deep into his pocket. "I think I've moved past it. Or I'm working on moving past it. I dunno, I'll figure it out."

They merged in with the group and John nicked him in the ankle with his crutch, making him jump and amusedly wrinkle his nose. "Would, ah...removing the problem help at all?" he mildly asked, trying not to let on that he suspected the problem was named John Watson.

Looking horrified by the very idea, Bruce quickly shook his head. "No, no, definitely not! There isn't even a problem to remove, it's - I mean - if anything, _I'm_-"

"If you say _you're_ the problem I'll get you in the head next."

"Then I won't say it," smiled Bruce sadly, and that ended the conversation with steel finality.

In the end they found Sherlock first, smoking outside of a smaller hotel than the one they were staying in. He made a face like a child found with his hand in the biscuit tin as they approached, and John stared disapprovingly until he stomped out the butt and threw it in the bin. "What happened to the nicotine patches, and it being impossible to support a smoking habit in London?" he frowned.

"Criminals are far more susceptible to bargaining with cigarettes," shrugged Sherlock elegantly. "I'm going to assume Mycroft sent you?"

"I called him, actually, and he pointed us in the right direction."

He scoffed, and Thor stepped forward to tower over him, arms crossed. "What have you done with my brother, thin one?" he boomed threateningly.

Arching one eyebrow haughtily, Sherlock remarked, "I've done nothing to him, massive one," and vanished inside the front entrance without another word. There was much exasperated sighing and eye-rolling before they followed, as Sherlock doubtlessly knew they would have done in his usual arrogant fashion. The hotel was nicer than it looked on the inside than out, and with a few well-practiced turns they were outside of a ballroom used for conventions and conferences. Sherlock pointed at Steve. "You: in here. The rest of us are needed elsewhere."

Steve bemusedly went through the double doors while Sherlock led the way to a room on the second floor that needed a staff key - or would, if Sherlock weren't so adept at picking locks. Inside was a wide window overlooking the ballroom where Steve stood alone, and a control panel with a laptop hooked up to it. Sherlock flipped a switch and the window slid open so they could hear as Tony escorted a little old lady with white hair into the ballroom.

Even from the next floor up, they all could see the tears in Steve's eyes as he timidly called out, "Peggy?"

"Hello, Steve."

Tony quickly retreated from the ballroom, and within minutes was joining them through the staff door. "Okay, here we go," he grinned with a pat on Bruce's back. "TwistKnickers McGee, you got the music ready?" Sherlock glared daggers at the nickname before punching a few buttons and adjusting the volume in the ballroom.

"You look so pretty, Peggy."

She gave a tired laugh. "Darling, spare an old woman empty platitudes. I don't look like I did in 'forty-two."

He shook his head quickly. "Doesn't matter. You're still the most beautiful dame I ever saw."

"I haven't been called that in fifty years, you silly boy!" cried Peggy - Mrs. Turner. "Not even my husband called me a dame when we met. No one dared. But you, Steve, you...look just the same as the last day I saw you. I can't imagine what you... When those men showed up at my daughter's house, I didn't know what to think! But now..." They couldn't see her face, but Steve was beaming tearfully as he rushed forward to embrace her, just in time for Sherlock to hit a button on his laptop. Dreamlike music filled the room.

_It had to be you_

_It had to be you_

_I wandered around and finally found_

_The somebody who_

_Could make me be true_

_Could make me be blue_

_And even be glad just to be sad_

_Thinking of you_

Pulling back to wipe his eyes on his sleeve, Steve straightened his spine and clicked his heels together, offering a hand. "May I have this dance, Miss Carter?" he asked, in what was probably supposed to be a stoic and manly voice but came out a shaky, feeble thing. Peggy took his hand and stepped in a close with a murmur that made Steve blush, and John reached to shut the window as they started dancing.

_Some others I've seen_

_Might never be mean_

_Might never be cross or try to be boss_

_But they wouldn't do_

_For nobody else_

_Gives me a thrill_

_With all your faults I love you still_

_It had to be you, wonderful you_

_It had to be you_

Loki craned his neck to look down on the dancing pair, then upward, out the skylight, and around the tiny booth. Grinning wolfishly, Tony reached out and nudged Bruce with his foot to make him smile. And in the corner Clint whispered something to Natasha that made her roll her eyes, pulling out his hearing aids and deftly changing the batteries so he could hear the music better, with a kiss and a murmur of: "You big sap." An expression of quiet desperation crossed Loki's features, before he resigned himself to the sorry fact that he would never regain his powers, never again see her face, no matter how many good deeds he committed.

_It had to be you, wonderful you_

_It had to be you_


	17. Chapter 17

"It's because, Elk-For-Brains, you did a nice thing knowing that it should get you your powers back," Tony said on the plane, with the same air as though he were speaking to an idiot child. They'd risen very early to get on the Stark jet back in New York, which seemed ridiculous in itself, seeing as it was a private jet to begin with. Steve and Peggy had spent hours catching up on lost time, their Captain only making it to the hotel in time to sleep for an hour before rising yet again, now in the possession of all of his surviving friends' contact information. The number was sadly small and dwindling, but the soldier was no less ablaze with hope of seeing them all again. John sat in the back of the jet with his landlady and his friend, who were going to be staying in his apartment on a holiday until Baker Street was pieced together again. "Didn't you read your brother's file? He _died_ for someone, dude. If that isn't selfless, I don't know what is, and selflessness is your ticket out of Dodge."

Loki winced at the mention of Thor's valiant sacrifice - _I was the one who killed him_ - and the lady-love he died for, the beautiful mortal Jane Foster. How could he stand loving a mortal woman, knowing that she would soon grow old as Peggy Carter and die, while he remained the same? Perhaps that was true selflessness. Loki wondered if he was even capable of feeling so acutely again, searching in the greatest depths of his heart, languishing in the pain as only one name other than those of his children or brother came to mind. A love worth losing everything for, yes, but not one that would ever come to Midgard. Not again. What could he sacrifice for her that would seem anything less than petty and meaningless?

From his place in the back of the jet John watched as Thor sank into the seat beside Loki and attempted to have a quiet word with him. "You seem forlorn, brother," he boomed instead, drawing everyone's attention and making his brother blush.

"So, Mrs. Hudson, looking forward to a holiday in New York?" John asked, hurriedly turning to direct some attention away from the other man's embarrassment.

"Oh, yes, though I haven't been to the States in quite a long time," nodded the landlady. "Just as long as it doesn't turn out like my last visit, I think I'll count it a success."

Sherlock reached between their seats and gently brushed Mrs. Hudson's hand with his, smiling almost tenderly at her, sharing in some private memory, before leaning back in his seat and looking out the window. It had never really surprised John to know that Sherlock loved Mrs. Hudson, but seeing the allowances and displays he made for her, out in the open where anyone could see, was always a bit whelming. Though John had never met Sherlock's mother, he didn't feel like he had to because of the way he treated Mrs. Hudson. "And Sherlock, just remember that Tony's being really nice letting you stay in Stark Tower. Try not to blow anything up, won't you?" he asked.

"Hey, come on, John, don't be a downer," called Tony from the bar (Really, Tony? A bar in a jet?). "I blow shit up all the time, seriously, the more the merrier." He grinned at Sherlock; apparently they'd learned to get along in their search for Mrs. Turner, though there was still an air of _hey man, you're living in my house and eating my food and possibly fucking my agent, I still can't tell, so be careful with my stuff or I could make New York a very cold city_ hanging in the air between them.

They landed in New York, and John suddenly felt as though history was repeating itself, only with all the changes he'd so desperately wished for two years ago: Sherlock was by his side this time. Yes, they were both thinner and angrier than they'd been back then, but they were somehow better men for what they'd been through. John had been through missions and patch-ups and the antics of the Avengers that were somehow even more ridiculous than Sherlock's. Sherlock had been through...well, he still hadn't said what he'd really been through, but it had certainly changed him.

Thor's girlfriend Jane and her friend Darcy, who had been house-and-cat-sitting, were waiting for them at the airport, beaming and holding a cardboard sign with the Avengers' signature A written on its face. The thunder god ran to embrace her. "My beautiful lady Jane, what a glorious feast your beauty is to my eye once again. My friends, please, look upon these fine ladies and try not to weep!" he declared with one arm around each of the women. Jane Foster was, indeed, very pretty in a tiny wide-eyed sort of way, while Darcy's full red lips and curves had her closely resembling a forties pin-up. Steve seemed particularly moved by her, and had to strictly avoid eye-contact with the beaming bombshell to keep himself from blushing.

"Why don't you guys stay at the tower for a while longer?" suggested Tony. "I'm already housing, what, ten? There's plenty of room for more. Not to mention the ten levels of R&D for Miss Foster to ogle at with me and Bruce, and the hot ass _en masse_ for Miss Lewis to ogle at. Really, Darce, it's Candyland in there."

Both women looked tempted, then Darcy noticed Loki peering around her feet. "Slippy's at home, hun," she assured him. When Loki's face fell she reached up to pat his cheek. "I think she missed you, if it makes you feel better."

"Can we please skip the trivialities?" droned Sherlock, who had already snatched his, John's, and Mrs. Hudson's bags from the belt and was making a grand point of waiting around. "I've just spent eight hours on a jet full of idiots, and would actually consider _killing somebody_ for a shower." He went largely ignored, and everyone took their time getting their things and finding the cars.

Life at Stark Tower returned to its somewhat insane brand of normalcy, even with the new additions. Jane and Sherlock fit in well with the resident scientists; it seemed they had almost all of the major sciences covered down there by then, with chemistry, astrophysics, biology, and engineering all present. Outside of R&D Darcy was making herself a permanent fixture in the training room - or, really, anywhere within fifteen feet of Steve's ass. He didn't seem to mind much. If anything, the attention of a beautiful girl who didn't treat him like an idiot made him stand that much taller. Mrs. Hudson, too, was enjoying herself, helping John babysit the heroes and flirting with JARVIS (AI could flirt, who knew?) while she made biscuits.

On the other hand, Loki was causing more mayhem than ever in an attempt to hide his plunging mood. His tricks were nothing dangerous, of course, but it was never pleasant to find rotten deviled eggs in one's pillowcase. He even sank as far as to do the typical Saran-wrap-over-the-doorframe gag. Unfortunately for Loki, Clint had fallen victim to that trick and spent half the day hunting the tower for revenge. Just as John was falling asleep he heard the mortal god's shriek of terror as he was apparently found at last.

Besides the pranks and the return to his beloved cat, Loki was more despondent than ever. Even Thor's cajoling or Sleipnir's escape attempts couldn't coax him out of the apartment longer than the time it took for him to wreak minor havoc.

"I worry for my brother," sighed Thor out of the blue one day a few weeks later. "I believe he has lost all hope of regaining his powers. I normally would be encouraged by his return to mischief, but there is no cunning in it. His heart mourns too strongly for-...Asgard."

Even though Loki had, at one point, tried to kill her, Jane made a sympathetic sound. "I thought he was a criminal on Asgard anyway," she said while playing idly with Thor's hair. "Why would he want to go back to a planet where everyone hates him?"

"Our mother does not hate him," smiled Thor. "Despite everything, she loves him as strongly as any mother would a wayward son. And...there may still be another." At their questioning looks he shook his head. "It is not my place to reveal courtly discretions. But, other than myself and our mother, I can think yet of another who loves Loki without condition." He snaked an arm around Jane's waist and kissed her cheek fondly.

John was given paid time off for his recovery, but mostly ended up skipping missions to look after the goings-on in the tower with Mrs. Hudson's help. The others were more considerate of his limited mobility (which really meant they took all of their business to his apartment rather than summoning him for help), and were fiercely protective of him while he was out of commission. When Sherlock's refusal to talk about his time in the grave stretched into the third week and led to another shouting match, the apartment was flooded with superhumans and SHIELD agents within minutes, and Sherlock dragged out to cool off.

"Sherlock, you need to _talk to me_ if things are going to even approach normal again," John said once they were alone later. "I mean it, don't give me that look. I want to know what happened to you."

Sinking lower into his chair, Sherlock scratched irritably at the back of his head before rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. "I...didn't do good things, John," he huffed.

"Obviously," snorted John. "I wouldn't be asking if I thought you'd had a grand or boring time."

They stared at one another for a long time, the silence between them stretching out until it was nearly tangible. Then, Sherlock finally spoke. "I...started in Prague, hunting down the Golem before the network could send him after me. Before I could find him he broke into my hostel..." It took the entire night, and more than a few generous drinks, but Sherlock told him everything. Even told him some other things, things John had always wondered about and thought it had been too late to ask, about his life, his brother, his parents. And since it was only fair, John told him a few things as well.

"On the last day - my last day in England - I went to the cemetery and watched you and Mrs. Hudson," admitted Sherlock sometime around sunrise. "I wasn't close enough to hear...what you said. When you were alone."

It was only fair, John reminded himself again, even as his throat blocked up and something hot pressed in behind his eyes. "I-I told...well, I told _you_, I suppose...that you were the best man, and the most human man, I'd ever known. I was so alone when we met. And...and I owe you so much for...the things you did for me." His voice was tight and hands shaking, and moments later Sherlock's hands tentatively covered them.

"You aren't alone anymore," Sherlock said in a low, steady voice. "Even if I were to leave this moment, you would have friends here. Now that I know that, when Baker Street is repaired, I'll be more than willing to return and leave you in-"

John pulled his hands free and snatched Sherlock's lapels before he could finish speaking. "Don't you dare!" he chided, half-laughing at Sherlock's surprise. Then he sobered, and put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, and quietly added, "Please. Don't go where I can't follow. Not again." Before Sherlock could say anything, John went the full mile and hugged him. Wiry arms hesitantly wrapped around him, and they sat that way for far longer than he'd ever thought Sherlock could tolerate sitting still.

Six weeks later, John was still limping but no longer needed his crutch. They were all clustered in Tony's apartment for a movie after dinner (yes, even Sherlock. It had taken a lot of coercing and a threat to tie him up again, but he'd cooperated) when there was a knock, absurdly, on the window. Outside was a strange dark-haired woman who Thor leaped from his chair to greet. "Lady Sif! What on earth brings you here?" he cried jubilantly, offering the beautiful armor-and-leather-clad woman a hand in, which she prudently ignored to leap into his embrace.

"I would request an audience with the Princes of Asgard," grinned Sif once she was securely inside and blissfully oblivious to the Avengers' staring.

At John's side, Loki stiffened as though he'd been slapped, and slid soundlessly from the room with a stricken look on his face.


	18. Chapter 18

"My Lady, allow me to introduce my mortal friends! Here is Steve Rogers, Captain of the kingdom of America. This is Bruce Banner, who, when angered, transforms into the most incredible being called the Hulk! And this is Tony Stark, the Man of Iron! And this..." Thor kept an arm around Sif's shoulders as he introduced her to everyone (except Jane and Darcy, who were already acquainted), but his face fell when he said, "And, of course, over there is - Loki?" and found his brother absent. "...I am sorry, Sif, it seems he was drawn away before alerted of your presence."

"It is quite alright, my Prince, I have time to spare," she smiled, looking around Tony's apartment with interest. Setting eyes on Mrs. Hudson, she dropped to a knee with a hand clasped over her breast. "My Lady! You must be Queen Mother of this realm to live in such a palace!"

"O-oh, I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'm not-"

Sherlock quickly stepped in with both hands on Mrs. Hudson's shoulders, a mischievous smile on his face. "Your Grace, please, don't be too hard on the commoner woman for not immediately knowing your status," he lied smoothly. Within moments the rest of them were joined in on the charade and voicing their loyalty to Her Majesty Queen Martha, who instantly began enjoying herself. While they were busy exaggeratedly worshipping her, Thor guided Sif into another room for a private word.

Their talk was brief, though at one point the conversation in Tony's living room was interrupted by loud celebratory laughter and unrestrained cheering, and in just enough time for them to start a new conversation (Steve was really into Mario Kart that week) they were back in the open, flushed and beaming at one another. "You have my fondest blessings and all the love in my heart, dear lady," he said. For only a moment Jane looked worried, but then he planted himself firmly beside her and playfully tucked his nose into the crook of her shoulder until she laughed.

"Thor, where may I find him?" asked Sif pointedly, and the god jumped to attention once more. Before going to show her the proper way to his apartment, Thor tenderly brushed his hand along Jane's jaw and pressed a kiss to her head. Sif smiled at her. "Lady Jane, it is good to see you again," she said with a polite nod, then followed Thor out.

When he returned minutes later it was to the expectant stares of his fellows. He offered them a soft, saddened smile. "That was the Lady Sif," he explained unnecessarily, fidgeting with his hands as he cast Jane an anxious look. "She comes bearing good tidings from Asgard." He sat heavily on the arm of the sofa and sighed - it tilted, even with three others there.

"Why are you so down in the dumps if Sif brought good news?" Steve asked, bleeding genuine concern from every star-spangled orifice.

"It is bittersweet news, Captain," replied Thor, putting a hand on Jane's shoulder. "You see, the Lady Sif and I grew up together, with Loki and the Warriors Three as well, of course. We were all very close as children, and as we grew Lady Sif was determined to become a warrior like other fine women before her. My father was so impressed with her determination and cunning, that he deemed she would someday be queen of Asgard."

Jane accidentally snorted cocoa out her nose. "Wait, you're not trying to tell me you're _married_ in front of your best friends, are you?" she choked while Natasha mechanically slapped her on the back.

Roaring with unexpected laughter, Thor made everyone jump in surprise. "No, no, my dearest Jane! I promise you, I have no such secrets as that. Sif and I were never happy to be betrothed, you see; we are more like brother and sister than man and wife. We have played together since our infancy, since her hair was long and golden! On the other hand, there was always a very profound sort of...intensity between Sif and Loki. He did not play with us as often, liking his books and spells above fighting, so I believe that perhaps he was not around Sif enough to feel as a brother to her. She is a goddess of war, and does not war need trickery and deceit to survive? They fell together always, standing side-by-side when the kingdom thought their ambitions mere folly, for there had never been a like Sif who was also a Lady of the court, and Loki was always more scholarly than the rest of us. They found solace in one another's friendship, and never was one seen without the other. Despite being young, only two hundred years, their love for one another was immense, just as is my love for Jane.

"When mine and Sif's betrothal was announced by the Allfather, it shook their bond to its very core. I believe that Loki never forgave me for such inadvertent treachery, and instantly he and Sif distanced themselves from one another to make the separation less painful. Loki pushed his love so deep within that it made him hard and bitter, and likely fueled his murderous ire against me. My father was not pleased when I returned to Asgard bearing news of my love for a mortal, but it invigorated Sif's spirits, and after ages of effort she has managed to convince my father to end our ill-fated engagement, so that she and Loki may be free to follow their own destinies."

There were a few appreciative "Aww"s from Darcy and Jane (and Steve, though he was loathe to admit it) while Thor smiled sappily down at his girlfriend. Tony, on the other hand, was rolling his eyes before grinning most devilishly. "Well," he said with a clap of his hands, "if Loki's a prince and Sif's a noblewoman, it would be pretty improper to leave them without a chaperone. JARVIS, spy on Thor's brother, please? Maybe we'll catch a boob-shot."

"My brother would never-!"

"Attack Earth? Try to kill you? Be _adopted?_ Looks like you need to start thinking with portals, buddy."

Thor glowered but sat back to watch with thinly-veiled concern as the live feed from his apartment showed up on Tony's big-screen. Clint made a face and pulled out his hearing aids so he wouldn't have to hear whatever went on, then Natasha rolled her eyes and pulled him out of the room. Mrs. Hudson, Steve, and Sherlock soon left as well, the former two to give privacy and the latter because he was bored. John told himself that it was his duty to make sure nothing happened in Stark Tower to jeopardize the team.

Secluded in the apartment, Loki was standing propped against the window when Sif knocked and entered. He spun in place, and even in the grainy video quality the surprise was clearly etched across his face. "M-my Lady, I did not know you were here!" he lied, quickly straightening to face her.

Sif's back was to the security camera, but the joy in her voice was clearly audible. "It is strange, my Prince, for I could have sworn we met eyes through the window," she said playfully. "And yet now you seem unable to tear your eyes from the floor. Does my arrival trouble you?"

"No!" insisted Loki before he dropped to one knee, in the same way Sif had bowed to Mrs. Hudson. "It is only that...I am a mortal, my Lady, no longer a prince and therefore unworthy of such an indulgence."

"What indulgence is this?"

"To meet the eye of the most beautiful maid and most fearsome warrior Asgard has ever seen, my Lady."

Tony made a noise like he was gagging. "The hell is this? I wanted full-frontal!" he whined.

"Tis the language of courtly love, Stark," scowled Thor. "It would be improper to speak too familiarly with one who is supposedly betrothed to your brother, yet even as a god of lies Loki has never been able to hide his innermost feelings from Sif."

They missed what Loki said next, but Sif was shaking her head and stepping nearer. "The king and queen are quite well. I bring you good tidings, my Prince. And you are indeed my Prince, for you will always be royal to my eyes. My engagement to Thor is null. I am a free maiden once again."

Loki's head snapped up in surprise and he stood. "My Lady?" he asked breathlessly. On the sofa, Jane and Darcy grinned as though they were watching a movie. Bruce rolled his eyes with a chuckle and left the room. John's leg still hurt. Sort of.

Sif took another step nearer. "I am free to choose my own path. You know what I would choose."

Even though there was a window behind him Loki tried to take a step back. "Why?" he asked, almost fearfully. As though he knew and dreaded the answer.

"Because you are Loki, and I am Sif." She stepped neatly and confidently into the circle of his arms, but hesitated before touching his jaw. "Your lips are scarred. Your father's punishment?" she asked, voice low. She didn't wait for an answer before rising to her tiptoes and pressing a kiss to his lips. Tony cheered for the imminent full-frontal.

For a moment the mortal god melted completely into the kiss, hand rushing up to play in her hair and eyes falling shut. Then he jerked forcibly back into the wall and shoved Sif for good measure. "My Lady, this is hardly decent," he gasped, keeping his hands defensively up though she made no attempt to draw nearer. "Please, I beg of you, do not lower yourself to my state."

"There is no one here to see us, Loki, it does not matter," said Sif, making everyone in Tony's living room shift awkwardly. That was when they lost Darcy with a mutter of going to see what Steve was up to. "Maybe we should-" Jane murmured, but Tony was already shushing her with a flap of the hand, eyes glued to the screen and completely enthralled.

"It matters to me, Sif!" Loki suddenly shouted. True to form, Sif didn't flinch even in the slightest.

"Loki, it is alright! Thor has granted us his blessing; we do not need to fear retribution from the Allfather," she soothingly replied.

Clenching trembling fists at his sides, Loki venomously hissed, "I do not fear Odin's retribution, nor do I desire Thor's blessing. I never promised you a proposal if Thor found a mortal plaything, and I will not offer one now. You have made yourself too familiar, my Lady. Return to Asgard and hide your shame."

"I have nothing to be ashamed of." There was anger in her voice now.

"You have been unfaithful to your future King by harboring such unclean desires for another," spat Loki.

Sif laughed in his face. "Loki, you have always known my feelings for you! And my feelings for Thor! We all played our parts when we thought there was no other way, but now there is a way, do you not see? There is no need to hide behind this lie," she said, reassuringly, softly, less like a warrior or lover and more like a friend.

"I am the King of Lies, my Lady," Loki said, straightening again to his full height and towering over Sif. "Have you forgotten? Do you really wish to sit upon a throne cast in the fires of deceit and betrayal? Do you really think I would allow one such as yourself to do so?"

"I am a warrior of Asgard!"

"_You are a mortal-loving whore and a fool!_" roared Loki, clutching the span of wall behind him like a lifeline. Thor leaped from his seat with a cry of outrage and vanished out the door.

Again Sif stepped forward, but with a fist raised as she shouted back, "You would call your brother such a foul insult, or merely a lady such as I?"

"I should not insult the future King of Asgard in such a way."

"But you would insult me, the would-be future Queen? The woman who-?"

This time it was Loki who stepped into the other's personal space. "Love is for children, my Lady. And I do not love you. I never loved you, I merely humored the whims of a _silly little girl_-" The slap resounded across the room and made their unseen audience flinch.

"Stop lying to me!" Sif shouted.

Instead of cowering as any reasonable man would have in the face of such anger, Loki straightened to his full height. "I would rather live a thousand mortal lives, and _die a thousand mortal deaths_, than spend a _single moment_ with you as my wife," he whispered. "Run to my brother. Bask in his glory and raise his perfect golden-haired babes, for Jane Foster cannot live forever. She will wither and die in the passing of a single season, and Asgard will still need its Queen. She makes for a pretty mistress, Miss Foster, yes, a fine specimen indeed, but a mere mortal could never sit upon the throne."

The apartment door opened with a bang, much louder than Loki's whisper, and Thor stormed in. "What is the meaning of such poison, Loki?" he boomed.

Sif swiftly raised a hand to silence him. When she spoke, her voice was cold and distant, like a warrior's once more. "It matters not. I shall return to Asgard now. I am sorry for taking your precious time, my Princes." She strode to the door - not a single step faltering despite the sickening words hurled at her from the man she supposedly loved - and stopped just outside the camera's view to speak softly. "I would have done it, you know. If you truly believe you will ever be condemned to Midgard...I would have asked the Allfather to make me mortal, so I may join you here. But you have chosen your path, and so I must alter mine. Goodbye, Loki. Thor, I shall see you again. Perhaps in the passing of a season."

Her footsteps faded and Loki fell limp against the wall, crying out in agony. "Why, brother? _Why did you do that? TELL ME!_" Thor thundered at him.

Huddled on the floor, hands fisted and pulling at his hair, Loki choked, "Now she is free from the shackles of mortality. She will have a better life than this prison."

Thor knelt before his brother and closed a meaty fist around his shoulder. "You would cast away the woman you love to save your pride?" he asked angrily, and Loki's eyes slid down.

"I would rather live a thousand mortal lives, and die a thousand mortal deaths, than limit that woman - that warrior - to such a weakened and vulnerable state as mortality. She is a goddess, and must remain one or we shall both suffer. I love her too dearly to force such a fate upon her." His head sank into his hands.

Tony smirked slightly. "Selflessness. You did it right, Antlers."

Then the temperature in Stark Tower dropped about twenty degrees, a blinding light blocked out the television, and Loki's shocked scream was cut off into static. "What happened?" John demanded, jumping up and running for the elevator. His mind was whirring with possibilities: Thanos could have returned for another taste of Earth, or that Doctor Doom that had Fury so worked up but John had never encountered, or - for God's sake, John hoped not - it could be _Deadpool_. "Tony, have a suit ready, I'll comm up if there's trouble." Putting a gun to hand he ran for the emergency stairs, which were infinitely faster than the damned elevator to Hell, and halfway down to Thor's apartment met Sif. "Something's happened in Thor's apartment; go upstairs and wait for my word," he ordered in passing.

"I will _not!_"

He rolled his eyes but knew better than to argue with an actual goddess. "Fine, but stay behind me. I'm in charge of this palace no matter who your King is," he growled irritably before pushing in the apartment door with his gun bared. "Thor? Loki? You okay?"

The brothers were tearfully embracing, no longer in the comfortable Midgardian clothes they'd donned between missions, but their full armor, Loki's eyes hidden in Thor's shoulder. His hands were icy blue, but by the time he'd risen his head with a grimaced smile of joy so strong it brought pain, he was pale yet as the first time John saw him. Tears coursed from his eyes still, but his brother only held him tighter.

_John? John! What's going on down there, do I need to suit up?_ Tony asked through John's earpiece.

"Stand down, we're okay," he replied quietly, then hurried himself from the room. Sif remained, staring wide-eyed at the future King and newly restored Prince of Asgard.


	19. Chapter 19

The first thing Loki wanted to do with his powers restored was to see Asgard and his mother again. The first thing Loki _did _with his powers restored, however, was fling open the window, transform into an enormous bird with inky black plumage, and spend four hours flying over the city. The creature's joyful cries echoed across New York and above the city traffic sounds. For a while, Stark Tower's windows were thrown wide open, and the Avengers repeatedly looked up to the sound of wings fluttering. Just when Thor began to worry his brother might make a run for it he returned, breathless and ruffled and laughing like none of them had never seen before, a man freed from more than a year in shackles.

With promises to return soon and a long kiss for Jane, Thor joined Sif and his brother on the roof to return the lost prince home that very night. John followed because he'd never actually seen the process before and was curious. It seemed Sherlock was thinking along the same lines. Before they left, Loki looked at John a long time. Even his eyes seemed a bit lighter.

"When I was first captured, the agents would have had me killed, but you appealed to their humanity," he stated thoughtfully, memories seeming to tumble around one another behind his neutral expression, and John nodded. "I suppose that I owe you my thanks."

He shrugged. "I was only doing my job, looking after these yahoos," he argued feebly, and shook the hands of the gods before him. Never thought he'd be seeing _that _day.

Stepping once again onto the circular platform, they waited only moments and golden light flooded them. Then Loki turned and said, "Let go or choke," to Sherlock just before they vanished. His parting words echoed and quickly died.

The silence stretched thickly between them as it had done every time they were left alone together. Sherlock had told John everything that happened to him over the past years, but even that couldn't make up for lost time. They were both too different from how they'd been before. in his years away Sherlock had seen too much, felt too intensely to be constrained to one lifetime, so many ideas and thoughts and fears building up into a physical weight hiding just behind his sternum, pulling like a magnet back to John. Always John. But it seemed the Avengers' pull was stronger, and really, it wasn't all that surprising. SHIELD provided John with the adrenaline required to support the lifestyle he'd grown accustomed to with the familiar camaraderie that had drawn him to the army as a teenager.

That did not, however, mean that it was fair, or that Sherlock didn't feel a touch of envy. Yes, he jumped off a building for Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, but the hunt, the years of isolation, the hoards of dead men rotting in his path, two gunshot wounds, eight stabbings, countless beatings and nights spent in sleepless agony, those had all been for John. Every poisonous breath and ill-uttered prayer were in the effort of returning to the life he'd once known on Baker Street.

"Alright?" asked John long after the Asgardians and Jötun were gone.

Sherlock blinked. He didn't know. Being in a foreign country - even being in New York - wasn't an unfamiliar sensation after his years on the run, but being away from London _with_ John was an entirely new and off-putting experience. Had he wanted to travel with John? Of course. Had he been glad for the invitation? Only a bit, because Stark still got on his nerves and Banner seemed to have a personal vendetta against him, that was not-so-subtly disguised behind his polite facade. Did he want John all to himself? Absolutely. But that wouldn't be fair either. And what had Loki meant by 'let go or choke' anyway? Shouldn't someone be letting go of _him _to prevent such an end?

Looking at it from a different angle, though, doing what he was best at, Sherlock could understand. He would never have John all to himself, John was human, he needed a social network that Sherlock couldn't provide and would be selfish to deny. As long as he was in New York he would be a buffer separating John from his newer, better friends, and their friendship would crack apart to dust under the pressure. This fool's dream of life returning to what it once was had to end.

_Let go or choke._

"I'm fine," he replied, hands deep in his pockets as he turned to go inside. "I just think I ought to come back from the dead, now."

It was time to wake up.

Within days Sherlock was gone and the news of his miraculous return had reached America. Mycroft's hand in the publicity of such an event was clear to John: in interviews and press conferences, every other word from Sherlock's mouth - every other lie - was accompanied by a roll of his eyes. By only the second day of press, news personalities were actively wondering whether it was a nervous tick or habit Sherlock picked up in response to PTSD. The speculation made John grin to himself. Then he would look around for someone to grin at and find his apartment empty once again. It made the most curious sensation of a jackknife digging in between his ribs, like he'd lost Sherlock all over again.

Mrs. Hudson, on the other hand, made the lucrative decision to collect the insurance money from her house on Baker Street and, rather than return to London, take up a little building in New York. She'd apparently always dreamed of living there, but fully intended "to _live_, Mister Stark. Your tower is very nice and all, but I enjoy working for my supper and plan to do so until this old hip gives out. Maybe I'll find some nice boys to rent the room upstairs and indulge me once in a while." She smiled sunnily at John as she said it, but he felt as though he were losing someone else as well. It shouldn't matter, he'd hardly seen the woman other than over webcam in two years, but in only seven weeks he'd become firmly reattached to his old landlady.

Missions continued, villainy was never quite as defeated as they hoped, and John was happy. Or, he was as happy as he could be while the living ghost of his best friend continually stared out at him through the television screen. Poor Sherlock had to suffer through interview after press conference after interview, at his brother's cajoling, of course, to make the public understand that faking one's death was not a fun or wise decision to make. He rarely looked at ease in front of a camera, even ended more than one interview with the reporter in tears because he wouldn't stop shouting how stupid everyone was. John had no idea why he put up with any of it. Then some overeager young reporter would call him _brilliant_ or _fantastic _and he would get the oddest faraway look in his eyes.

"So, Mister Holmes, where's your faithful blogger in all of this?" one had playfully asked.

Sitting back in his chair, Sherlock stuck the woman with a hateful glare. "We aren't sewn together at the hip. He has his life and I have mine."

"Friendship gone sour, then?"

"We're still close, though it's really none of your business."

"Speaking of yours and Doctor Watson's closeness-"

"If you really desire to continue your career, I suggest the immediate arrest of that question."

And so the wheel turned on.

Two months later John was with Natasha and Clint in Berlin. Their improvised target was the same vanishing police box that had had Natasha in such a foul mood after the brief fight with Thanos, but the trouble with it was they never knew when or where the bloody thing would show up. The first target they'd been assigned to neutralize somewhere around Kiel was long forgotten, since the unidentified craft was so erratic that when they spotted and scanned it - confirming its identity as the proper box - they had barely had enough time to call Fury before Natasha took initiative and called it a priority.

"I just want to know what's in the fucking box, okay?" she fumed, glaring down the handset scan of the box. "I _know _it's alien tech, it has to be with this interior; they might know something about Thanos."

Grinning, Clint crossed his arms and asked, "I thought Thanos wasn't a priority at present, Agent Romanoff? Just admit you thought you saw a hot, humanoid alien in a trenchcoat climbing inside and want to trap him in your thigh-squeeze of sexy death?"

"I did not need to hear that," sighed John with a saintly roll of his eyes, while Tasha shoved Clint's cackling face into the dirt. "I don't know why you don't just try opening it, if you saw someone get in." Just in case he was wrong, John wasn't about to admit he thought he'd seen the exact same thing, only with more tweed.

Clint threw Natasha off of his back with a well-devised twist of the hips and tried clawing his way to the box while she dragged at his uniform. "Yeah, Tasha, why don't we just open it?" he choked, eyes tearful with suppressed laughter.

"Cut it out, Barton! If there is intelligent life in that box, then we don't want to scare the shit out of it!"

"I can't, I need to know what's in the box!"

"This is unprofessional! We - are - on - a _mission!_"

_"What's in the box, Tasha?! WHAT'S IN THE BOX?!"_

_"I WILL KILL YOU!"_

Suddenly sitting up, Clint grinned and pressed his smiling lips to Natasha's. "You couldn't if you tried," he sweetly said, much to her annoyance. He was much more relaxed when not on a formal mission. If it were official he would have been the face of professionalism, but this had apparently been a years-long running joke between the two assassins. With ease, he reached up behind his head and swung open the door of the box. Natasha craned her neck to see around Clint, and John took another step nearer to get a good look inside. Their eyes widened and mouths fell open as they stared.

And stared.

And _stared_.

And someone familiar stared back.

"_Coulson?!_"

It had been many years since John had seen his cousin, but the scraggly gaping man in civvies dashing about the innards of an alien spaceship was definitely Phil Coulson. He dropped the controls and made a move, as though considering slamming the door in their faces, before letting out a gusty sigh and stepping out of the ship. "Agent Romanoff," he resignedly acknowledged. "Agent Barton. And..." He frowned. "John? Hamish and Joan's son?"

John nodded. Probably, he should have been desensitized to the point that nothing surprised him, especially after Sherlock, but he was utterly gobsmacked.

"It's Agent Watson now," Natasha casually said as she rose up from the dirt road, hand at her hip-holster. "Something you'd like to tell us about your loyalties, Phil?"

Coulson shut the box's door behind him and locked it with a key kept around his neck. "I'm not a spy, if that's what you're worried about," he mildly said. "I _was_stabbed, but the EMTs managed to revive me on the helicarrier and quickly isolated me for surgery. SHIELD kept it hushed up because they weren't sure I would survive, and when it became clear that I would, Fury contacted me. There was a mission to be done, one that could only be done by a dead man, and since you already thought I was dead I seemed the natural choice. After my target was neutralized, this box showed up, one thing led to another, and, well..." He shrugged with a crooked smile.

It was the first time Natasha had hugged anyone within visual memory, and John and Clint quickly looked away to avoid threats of dismemberment. Then Phil went limp with one of her hands on a pressure-point under his ear. "Fuck the box. Let's get him the hell back to New York," she scowled, but there was a distinct lack of heat to it. They left the key to the box in the dirt.

Reactions to Phil's return were largely more fair, due to a wider population that cared, compared to John's reaction when it came to Sherlock's. Natasha was quietly furious, Steve guilty, Tony elated ("No, Pepper, seriously, you need to get on the first flight back to New York and _see this!_"), Bruce mildly surprised but otherwise unfazed, and Clint oddly proud. There were a lot of hugs. Even one for John, accompanied by Phil's thanks for "looking after these yahoos for me."

"So I'm not the only one who calls them that."

Phil grinned. "Have you tried tasing? It always worked wonders for me."

"You never tased me, Coulson!" Tony shouted across the room.

"Doesn't mean I didn't daydream about it, Stark!"

They were laughing, still clapping hands on shoulders and begging Phil to spill about his adventurous life post-mortem. John still felt like there was something missing, something big and menacing and important. Tony and Bruce were sequestered on the couch, so close their shoulders sometimes touched and Bruce would blush, crouched together over a tablet and trying to piece together how to make a dimensionally-transcendent hideout of their own. They had a small "eureka" moment and Tony smacked a kiss to the side of his curly head, only making him blush so hard his glasses fogged up. Across from them Clint and Natasha were sharing the big chair usually reserved for Thor. Natasha was sour because she still hadn't caught the alien in the box, and Clint was trying to make her feel better by suggesting it had been a succubus and was even then attached somewhere to Coulson, sucking out his life-force. In the center, Steve was listening like an enraptured child to the returned agent's stories, the man of the hour himself looking awed and pleased that his childhood hero now looked at him with something like _belief_.

And then it hit John, because it always hit John last, that belief was the thing. In all his years, all the strife, all the worry and pain and crushing responsibility, every sleepless night, every firebombing, each sticky child crying with a tummyache or grown man crying for his mother's voice one last time, never had John Watson had something to believe in so strongly as his belief in Sherlock.

That man, that strange, wild man who could achieve the impossible with a flick of the wrist, he was still larger than life after Earth's Mightiest Heroes had been reduced to friends and humans with their own set of demons to wrestle. After big sister stopped looking so big. After the government he served lied to and abandoned him. After hope fled somewhere dark and quiet. Always, always, there had been Sherlock. Even when there hadn't been, even before that maniac had allowed John to stumble into his life, there had been a tang to the sea air that signaled something more over the horizon. Even when there hadn't been, even after that man who craved to be a god had given up everything to save someone as tiny and meaningless as _John Watson, _he had still believed, the world had still believed in heroes.

John needed someone to believe in again.

While everyone celebrated and basked in their happiness, John retreated into the cold, dark place within himself. But before he could go too far, before he could go where no one could follow, he pulled out his mobile and stepped into another room for privacy.

_To: Sherlock Holmes_  
_How would you like to get back_  
_in business?_  
_JW_

_From: Sherlock Holmes_  
_Lestrade still won't speak to me._  
_SH_

_To: Sherlock Holmes_  
_Then solve some American _  
_murders for a while. He'll_  
_miss you eventually._  
_JW_

_From: Sherlock Holmes_  
_What, really? You know I can't_  
_decipher tone in texts._  
_SH_

_To: Sherlock Holmes_  
_Of course I'm serious, you_  
_twat. Get on a plane._  
_JW_

_From: Sherlock Holmes_  
_Are you sure, John?_  
_SH_

_To: Sherlock Holmes_  
_Obviously. You need to get _  
_away from your brother _  
_for a while and I need a _  
_flatmate._  
_JW_

_From: Sherlock Holmes_  
_Strange, but I've been looking_  
_for one as well._  
_SH_

_To: Sherlock Holmes_  
_Oh? Any ideas?_  
_JW_

_From: Sherlock Holmes_  
_I'm afraid most candidates_  
_in London are unsurprisingly_  
_lacking._  
_SH_

_To: Sherlock Holmes_  
_Lacking what? Jumpers and_  
_the ability to nag at all hours?_  
_JW_

_From: Sherlock Holmes_  
_You know._  
_SH_

_To: Sherlock Holmes_  
_I suppose I do. There's an_  
_opening on 48th & Bunker. _  
_Some old lady looking for _  
_tenants. Interested?_  
_JW_

_From: Sherlock Holmes_  
_Well, who would want me_  
_as a flatmate?_  
_SH_

_To: Sherlock Holmes_  
_Come home._  
_JW_

_From: Sherlock Holmes_  
_Isn't London technically my_  
_home?_  
_SH_

_To: Sherlock Holmes_  
_You bloody well know it_  
_isn't. COME. HOME._  
_JW_

_From: Sherlock Holmes_  
_No need to shout. I'll be on_  
_the next flight to JFK. Have tea_  
_ready._  
_SH_

_From: Sherlock Holmes_  
_Please._  
_SH_

John smiled to himself and put the phone away. Let Sherlock stew without a response for a while. Finally, _finally_, he was going home. Or maybe home was coming to him, this time.

THE END

* * *

**SO! That was an adventure, wasn't it? Thank you everyone for reading and leaving me such wonderful comments, they really made it fun. The next fic I plan on posting will be up Monday- or the first part of it will. To tide you over, I'll give you the title: Not Your Momma's Breakfast Club. I know, I know, what's with all the club-related titles, but it's purely coincidence that these two happened back-to-back and both titles seemed appropriate. I also might be writing some deleted scenes somewhere down the line, but I'll make a separate "story" out of it if I do. Keep an eye out!**

**I feel like I had more to say.  
**


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